


A Firm Grasp of the Obvious

by USS_Johnlock (uss_hilson)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Adultery, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Male Character, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gay, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 59,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26130703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uss_hilson/pseuds/USS_Johnlock
Summary: An alternate story to follow up the 2009 Sherlock Holmes film with Robert Downey Jr. & Jude Law.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 32





	1. Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Holmes, although I've created many secondary characters and added backgrounds to some of the main characters in the Holmes world. So, insomuch as I've created new ideas, consider this my copyright on my original material.
> 
> Additionally, I started writing this after watching the 2009 Sherlock Holmes film. I'd written most everything before 2011's Game of Shadows sequel came out. Needless to say, I'd felt like someone had snuck into my account and read what I'd written, the parallels were so close.

" ** _Where the line is to be drawn between the important and the trivial cannot be settled by a formula_**." -Chief Justice Cardozo, 1921

~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a week before Dr. John Watson was to marry, and Holmes appeared to be in perhaps the worst mood Watson had ever encountered. "What do you think about dinner tonight, old cock?"

Holmes said nothing, intent on ignoring his friend by pretending to concentrate on an old newspaper.

"Old cock?" Watson dropped his own paper in his lap, concentrating on staring at his roommate in an attempt to get the man to pay attention to him.

Without warning, Holmes snapped shut his newspaper and directed himself toward Watson. "I am no longer your 'old cock,'" he replied sharply.

"Holmes,"

"And you are no longer my mother hen." The two men had been using the particular terms of admiration for one another, with Holmes as "old cock" and Watson as "mother hen", for years at this point in time. Approximately six months into their joint tenancy together, the doctour had tentatively knocked on the detective's chamber door, most certain he would soon be having to find himself a new flat.

"Yes Watson, enter."

"Sherlock... Holmes... I – we have a problem." The man's Adam apple seemed to jog the whole length of his throat.

"And what would that shared dilemma be, Watson?"

The doctor looked at Holmes, his chin practically touching his chest, his eyes slanted toward the man seated in a chair, an anatomy book in his hands.

"May, may I come in?"

"By all means, please suit yourself." Holmes shoved his spare chair from under the small table to invite Watson to accompany him.

Watson scurried over to the empty chair and sat on its edge, his eyes once more redirected towards the detective's face. "Holmes...I, _ahem_." He angled his neck sideways. "I'm afraid that I just do not have the rent money to give you for Mrs. Hudson this month."

Holmes turned his attention to his room's guest. "Is that so?"

"Yes. It is so."

"Is your monthly stipend such that you are financially unable to contribute your share of half the rent?" Sherlock kept his eyes on Watson, so as to watch the man for any sign of a lie.

"No," Watson shook his head quickly, "it's not that, it's just... _well_ ," His hands were held aloft his tweed-covered lap, into frustrated fists. "I, um, have a bit of a problem, and a personal one at that."

"Are you ill?" It was almost as if the man were baiting him with his words. Watson looked at him impatiently. "Surely now, Watson, you and I have become well enough acquainted over these several months such that you can tell me of that which troubles you so. That which, perhaps, has caused you no amount of consternation these past few months."

Watson was sure Holmes knew, that he was just forcing the other man's hand to speak the words aloud, thoroughly embarrassing the war veteran.

"I'm... I have a problem. With money. Actually, with gambling. I have a gambling problem." The words in his last sentence could not escape his mouth fast enough.

Sherlock merely smiled smugly at the man sitting across from him. "I know."

Watson's eyes widened slightly. "Then why the hell didn't you say something before today?"

"It was not my addiction to proclaim, now was it? Of course, now with the predicament you've put us in, it is indeed also my problem; however, I had hoped that you would have been able to cope with both your addiction and your, _our_ problem, yourself." Mrs. Hudson had long since expressed to the borders that they must not be tardy with their rent lest they find themselves in the unpleasant position of having to find new lodging. "What with the structural damage you're doing to my building with all the bullet holes and explosions, if I can't get my money promptly each month I might as well give up all together, isn't that right?" she'd asked them one day a few months back, looking from one man to the other, both with guilty looks on their faces. They hadn't wished to be a burden to their landlady. Instead, Holmes had insisted to Watson that they were indeed doing Mrs. Hudson a favour by letting their rooms from her, so that she didn't have to worry about filling the lodgings with more unsavory characters.

"Well... regardless Holmes, what shall we do? Our monies are due in a mere 15 hours, unless, of course, you should happen to have a few extra quid handy?" he asked, hopefully.

"Indeed, I do not. The McAvoys have not yet paid me for the services I've rendered, and as such, I am just barely able to afford my half of our lodgings myself."

"Bloody hell!" One of Watson's fists landed forcefully on the table. He clenched his jaw and unclenched his fist. _Would he have to rejoin Her Majesty's forces to have a roof of sorts over his head?_

Sherlock glanced at the book he had set on the table while the two men had been talking. "Don't worry Watson, I shall sacrifice myself for our greater good. Just promise me you'll accompany me to the fight so that I have someone to stitch up my inevitable wounds when I finish up."

"Wait, Holmes, what are you talking about?"

"It's well-known that underground competitive fighting is a rather popular sport in this area. In fact, as a gambler, I'm surprised you're not well-apprised of such yourself." Holmes looked at his pocket watch. "Well then, it's nearly 7 now, so if we are to make it in time for me to eat, digest and be prepared to fight, we must eat now. Let's us go."

Both men had left their Baker Street quarters in search of a quick dinner before heading down into the basement of a rather dank bar, where the aforementioned fight was being held. Holmes had started unbuttoning his shirt, handing his cuff links to Watson, as he told him, "Your job is to hold these, shout my name when it appears that I might be going down, and grab hold of me after I knock the other bloke down so that I can leave the ring and get home as soon as is possible."

"Holmes, I can't. You can't. I mean, I know you're rather spry, but this isn't hopping around some barrels whilst solving a dilemma, this is fighting. Fighting, Holmes!"

"Indeed, I am hoping to yet again surprise you with my physical prowess. Just make sure you bet all but 25 pounds so that we may stop by and procure a rather fine bottle of whiskey on the way home despite tonight's outcome, providing my injuries allow it." Holmes smiled at Watson, stretching and hopping from one foot to another, enjoying the look of bewilderment on his friend's face. _Surely, he couldn't be serious?_

Watson, with Holmes' white shirt and studded cuff links in hand, placed the bet pursuant to his fighter's wishes. He then pushed his way to the front of the ring, so the he could keep an eye on Holmes and rush in to save him, should the need arise. Holmes came into view as soon as the first veritable bludgeoning ended. Near Watson's side of the ring a rather large, angry, giant of man appeared. To Watson, who feared that his friend would be bloodied to a miserable mass of flesh and bones, the brutish man appeared three times his rather short friend's size. "Dear God, Holmes," Watson whispered aloud, "I sure as hell hope you know what you're doing!"

As the two men entered the makeshift ring, Watson noticed several more spectators placing bids. He guessed they were all on the larger man, the one just recently announced as "Doolihan". He hoped against all that was holy that Sherlock hadn't finally bitten off more than he could proverbially chew. Watson compared the two men and their physiques. He'd seen Holmes shirtless several times before, but he had never before noticed Sherlock's sleek, muscular form, as if he were a well-exercised race horse. Perhaps, if he stayed alive on his feet, he might make it out of this foolhardy game sufficiently intact after all. He was still focused on Sherlock when a man tapped his shoulder.

"Yes?"

"Bloke over there says you're his agent. Says you'll collect the winnings and such. S'right?"

"Um, yes, yes, it's true," Watson replied to the grizzled man.

"What's 'is name, then?" the small, beady-eyed man asked.

Sherlock had told Watson to provide a fake name for him, just in case the cops ended up gracing the dingy basement with their presence. Watson took another look at the smaller, scrappy man in the opposite side of the ring. Holmes had been running his hands through his black hair and jerking his neck to stretch out. He reminded Watson of an... "Old Cock," he replied. "His name is Old Cock."

The other man smirked. "Yer old cock's 'bout to be chicken food for ol' Dooly here. Man's knocked down five men straight these past few weeks." Before Watson had a chance to respond, the man had shuffled off. The man entered the middle of the ring and cupped his hands to his mouth to announce the match about to take place.

"Aye, you, listen up! Here, 'n this side we've got Duelin' Dooley Doolihan. Two-hundred, ninety-five pounds of pure bulk. Ain't been defeated in well over a month!" The crowd cheered, he obviously had several men who planned on his performance for their hooch money.

"An over 'ere, in this corner, we've got us an Old Cock. He's what, one-eighty soakin' wet, and a newcomer to our fine establishment. Let's welcome 'em both and see which one gets 'is teeth knocked out!" A fair-sized bolt of laughter swept through the crowd as a bell was wrung.

Watson gripped his cane hard, leaning on it quite heavily as though he were afraid he would faint if left to his own feet for balance. He held his breathe while Sherlock smiled, deftly stepping aside "Dooley's" hard punches. After about five tries, his opponent was becoming quite cross. "Stand still so I can knock that smile off!"

"I'm afraid not, sir." Sherlock stepped to the left of his opponent and offered a well-placed jab in Doolihan's kidney, causing the bigger man to howl in pain.

"You bastard!"

Sherlock maintained his wide grin and was about to make a quip about Doolihan's own parentage when the man swung his arm backward, catching Sherlock across the chest. He stumbled and coughed, before ducking a hook aimed squarely at his face. Once again Holmes made contact, but sadly, he was unable to do much damage. Doolihan straightened, approaching Holmes, wanting to pin him to a corner. He jabbed at his opponent, causing Sherlock to block and attempt to counterattack, however, as this was his maiden match, he was what one might call "a tad unprepared" for the stealthiness of his opponent. Doolihan was not one for theatrics, he kept his fists moving towards Sherlock at all times, making it hard for Holmes to gain the upper-hand, or any hand at all. Coming close to the flimsy wooden ring's wall, Sherlock yelled, startling his opponent enough to duck aside, dodging an uppercut. He clumsily sprinted towards the other side of the ring, where Watson stood, jaw clenched, his face a study in worry. Sherlock made eye contact with his impromptu "agent" and winked.

"SHERLOCK!" Watson bellowed, unable to snap his arm fast enough amongst the crowd to point behind to the fast-approaching fighter.

"Watson, I told you, I'm fi-" Unable to finish his sentence, the detective-cum-boxer found himself shoved up against the ring, pinned still by Doolihan, who had quite strong, albeit pointy shoulders. Before he had a chance to move, he somehow found Doolihan on top of him on the ground, fists repeatedly connecting with his face.

_How should one proceed?_ he thought, trying his best to dodge the blows while bracing himself for their inevitable connection. With his one free hand he made a fist, putting his thumb forward. Glad he hadn't cared to look after his own hygiene properly in a few weeks, Holmes jabbed his thumb with its ragged, overgrown nail sharply between two of Doolihan's ribs. Startled, the bigger man cried out and shifted his weight, giving Holmes the opportunity to release his right leg and slam it up against Doolihan, knocking him off, onto the ground. Realising he shouldn't give up on a good thing, Holmes started kicking at Doolihan – first his stomach, to cause the man to double onto himself, then his back, and then, finally, to seek vengeance for what was definitely a broken nose and a rapidly-closing eye, he allowed the side of his foot to twist in midair such that his heel connected with the man's ear. Permanent hearing loss would definitely make it infinitely harder for "Duelin' Dooley" to regain his top-dog status in this said circle of fighters.

Holmes straightened up after putting some distance between him and the grounded man before the unnamed referee announced that the fight was over. Streams of profanities erupted amongst the audience as Sherlock, feeling as if a team of horses had trampled him, took a bow. He caught himself on a side of the ring to keep from falling, and exhaled in relief as Watson appeared at his side in seconds.

"Come now, old cock, it's time to get you home," Watson said, gently.

"Collect the winnings first." It was the last thing Sherlock said for another good twenty-four hours.

While he wouldn't remember anything for three days later, Sherlock had been attended to by Watson. The doctor even went so far as to get a basin of hot water and some towels in an attempt to clean his patient, who smelled as though he hadn't bathed in a fortnight. Caked dirt, sweat and blood had ruined Sherlock's white shirt. Watson promised to himself that he would procure a new shirt for his friend as soon as Sherlock was fit to be left alone. One might argue with the doctour that, surely, Mrs. Hudson could be counted on to watch the sleeping detective for a few hours, but Watson did not want to risk it. Besides, lord only knew what might come out of his mouth if he found the woman near his bedside. At least, Watson thought, he would lend Sherlock one of his old shirts whose sleeves seemed to have shrank in washing. Besides, the man would probably have it covered in pipe ashes within the better part of a week!

Two days after Mrs. Hudson had received her monies due, Sherlock awoke, cognitive of the world around him. "I dare say," he began slowly, "Watson, you look a wreck. How long have you been here?"

The doctour smiled, content in knowing that the fight had left no permanent damage. "I have been here, Holmes, the entire time, save a few moments here and there to afford myself use of the bathroom."

The detective's hands tentatively raised as he felt his face, wincing from pain. "I'm quite the dancer, then?"

"Indeed."

"But I must have won, otherwise, you and I would be huddled on a street corner, looking like a proper pair of urchins by now."

"Indeed." Watson's voice purred.

Sherlock attempted to sit up a bit, and Watson immediately came to his aid, adjusting pillows to ensure his comfort. "And you," he pointed, "are quite the mother hen, aren't you, Watson?"

"I am a doctour, and as I consider myself _your_ doctour...", he smiled. "Yes Sherlock, I am your mother hen."

From that day forward, the men, when content with one another or showing concern, would refer to themselves as the "old cock" and "mother hen". Sherlock delighted in telling all who inquired that it was by far the best nickname he'd ever received. "Usually, my nicknames involve the words 'bastard' or 'ass' in them," he would tell anyone who asked.

"You are honestly telling me that you would rather sit alone, in your dark room with its stagnant air than accompany your best friend to dinner?"

"I don't recall proclaiming you my best friend," Sherlock sniffed.

"Who else do you think I asked to be my best man, eh?" The detective's eyebrows shot up tempestuously, silently mocking him. "Sherlock! Honestly, I just don't see how a man your age can act with such... impudence! What do you want from me?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Do you really want to know?"

"You want me to ask you properly, don't you? Or, would you rather that I command your presence? I'd be much obliged to do either, if it meant doing away with this silly charade." Sherlock said nothing. "Sherlock, my _dearest_ friend, my brother in spirit and in mind, would you please accompany me to dinner tonight? I would very much enjoy your company, and you've always been better at pairing up wines with our meal than I have." His voice was sincere.

"Will she be there?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

"She who?"

"The woman you plan on running off with while leaving me to pay all the bills, not that it'd be the first time, mind you."

Watson pinched his lips together to stave off his cheeks reddening, "No." He paused before continuing. "I thought it would be nice if it were just the two of us, in light of how quickly I'm to become a married man."

"Indeed," Sherlock replied dryly.

"Then you'll go? Dinner, at seven, at The Parisian. Wear a clean shirt. Do you still have that shirt I lent you years ago? The one you refuse to return to me?"

"The one you saddled me with when I bloodied my only other decent white shirt, only because it no longer fit you? Yes, I do. I only rarely wear it, mostly on special occasions."

"Well then!" Watson clapped his hands together before rising, "that'll be perfect!"

Unlike the one instance when Sherlock agreed to have dinner with both Watson and his to-be bride, Sherlock did not head off to the restaurant ahead of time. Instead, he and Watson had an unspoken rule that Watson would leave his friend alone for approximately an hour, sometimes longer, to allow Sherlock time to bathe, shave, and dress (which sometimes included chasing down a rogue cuff link), showing up at Sherlock's chambers, hat in his gloved hands, resting his weight on his cane.

The doctor knocked on his roommate's door, "Monsieur Sherlock, je suis arrivé!" ("Mr. Sherlock, I have arrived!") He was about to rap spryly once more when the door flew backward out of his reach. Holmes eyed the man in front of him. Not only was he a mere man, Sherlock looked the part of a true gentleman.

"Sherlock! You look..."

"Dashing, debonair, vogue, chic, extra intelligent?" the shorter man smiled upwards. "Now, shall we go?"

Watson had a carriage waiting for them. "While I must admit you look rather dashing, Holmes, you must have some other crisp shirt than that old thing."

"No. On the contrary Watson, if the Queen requested my presence, I would have to rent a proper tuxedo, or borrow one of yours." He smiled.

"And when would you ever need a tuxedo, Holmes?"

"I don't know, quite frankly."

"Perhaps if you ever got married we could get you into one." Watson's reply was meant to be a friendly comment, however he hadn't known the nature of Holmes' life shortly before the two men first met.

Holmes looked out the window, his mood changing within an instant. "I guarantee you, old boy, I will never marry again." While the men used the phrases "old cock" and "mother hen" with one another when they were contented, they conversely used the expression "old boy" when they were annoyed with the other.

"Holmes? Again?"

Holmes laughed in such a way that it was nearly a bark, loud and vicious in nature. "Really? Come now! You cannot pretend to feign ignorance over that whole ordeal. You wonder why I act like a muddled fool when Adler comes around- surely you must know why!"

"Well, because the two of you..."

"The two of us were to be married, you bloody fool! I thought that perhaps if I tried to delve into a life of normalcy that perhaps... Well, it's rather frowned upon in this society to live as a bachelor, you know that as well as I. I never particularly felt amorous towards Irene, but I figured that if I pretended for long enough-" Holmes stopped his yelling when the carriage thrust both men off their seats temporarily. Ah, the joy of unpaved roads.

"Holmes, I'm sorry. I had no clue. In fact, I thought you had honestly loved her."

Watson's companion sniffed. "I did. As a prodigy, as one would care for a younger sister, not as a woman. I thought she was truly interested in the art of my profession- as you are- yet I had been unable to realise the true depravity of her character. While she will always enchant me in the way men like us are enchanted by the macabre, it is more of an attraction to a disaster than it is an attraction to beauty."

"She was your apprentice?" Watson asked incredulously.

"She... had connections, and information regarding a particularly trying case upon which I'd been working. She tried to appeal to me using her beauty, I deterred. She told me that she was between jobs, that she was looking for a situation more friendly to a woman – said she'd attempted to work in a factoury without much luck. She practically begged me to allow her the chance to learn from me. She learned the combination to my safe, she learned to twist my guilt for not returning her purported feelings into extracting a marriage proposal from me, insisted I book the best room in the Grand Hotel- the very same room in which she drugged, unclothed, and tied me up for the chambermaid to find me years later – and when I awaited her dressed in a very expensive tuxedo that she insisted upon me wearing, she cleaned me out. I burned the tuxedo and never looked back."

Watson chewed on his lower lip, his head cocked slightly, taking in Sherlock's story. "How long were you with Adler?"

"I met her in late January, I lost what savings I had in mid December of the same year. Adler doesn't like to spend more than a year on any one conquest unless they're able to provide her six or more digits and the potential of some sort of gem to tuck into her wears."

"I'm sorry," Watson replied softly. It explained so much though. Why he became as confused as a wino when she showed up, flaunting her most recent acquisition, bringing gifts of exotic fruits and nuts, smelling of rare blossoms. It also explained why Sherlock was so reluctant to let him leave. After a bloated moment of silence in which he was alone with his own thoughts, Watson resolved that he would indeed show Sherlock how much their friendship meant, and that his marriage to Mary would not negate their bond.

The men soon arrived at the restaurant, which was not particularly busy for a Sunday night. "Watson, party of two," he told the maître d', "somewhere we can carry on a conversation, please."

They were escorted to a small circular table between a wall, near the roaring fire. Sherlock grinned. "Very nice, Watson."

"I assumed you should want only the best."

"I bet you say that to all your male companions."

"Sherlock!" Watson hushed him as a waiter came forward.

"Would you prefer the wine menu tonight?"

"Actually," Sherlock began, smacking his lips together, "I would prefer to hear what fish and fowl you have on the menu tonight before I browse your wine selection."

"Certainly, sir. We have smoked quail with water chestnuts and asparagus, braised halibut with carrots and potato, and a pecan-encrusted whitefish with broccoli and baby red potatoes. The house recommends a chardonnay with the whitefish, and a sangiovese with the halibut."

"I believe the quail sounds like our best bet. What vintages of pinot noir do you have on hand tonight?"

"We have a Carterhouse '58, a Smithsons '67 and the newest in our collection, a Lords' Brothers '72, sir."

Holmes looked at Watson and grinned widely. "What do you say to a little experiment tonight, John?"

"It sounds delightful, Holmes." Watson returned the smile, enjoying letting Holmes take charge of an otherwise innocuous situation.

Holmes clapped his hands together. "Very well then! Bring us a bottle of the Lords' '72, good sir!"

The two men enjoyed the fire, one another's company, and exquisite fare. "You know, Holmes, I must say, you have never steered me wrong. You always make the most delicious choices."

"But of course I do, dear Watson. Now, bring your glass closer lest you see the bottom of your goblet!" The men were on their second bottle of wine, enjoying their meal with the type of engaging conversation that turns an hour meal into a three hour affair. Their waiter brought out two dark chocolate soufflés and a sampling of the house's new sherry. Perhaps the waiter was days away from embarking on a new career such that he had nothing to lose, but he insisted that the maître d' had wished all tonight's patrons to partake in the house's new libation.

Whatever the reason, the men enjoyed themselves, becoming warmer all the while by the fire. "This is quite delicious!" Watson remarked to the waiter before receiving the check.

"May I?" Sherlock asked.

"Not at all," Watson protested, each word coming out separate and distinct in an attempt to prevent himself from slurring. "I invited you, as my guest, and as such, I shall pay."

Sherlock didn't argue. Instead, after they had settled their bill, Sherlock rose from his chair first, grabbing Watson's overcoat and holding it out so that the war veteran could slide into the sleeves of such easily. Watson's shoulder would sometimes bother him to the point where he would go without a coat if he were in a hurry. "Thank you, old cock," Watson purred, his eyes nearly slits while his lips were spread into a wide smile.

Sherlock stepped back to put on his own coat, regarding his friend. The man's eyes were definitely those of someone who had a bit too much to drink. They were also particularly beautiful, gleaming merrily in the firelight.

"Holmes, what is it?" Watson asked upon realising he was being stared at.

"What? Oh, nothing, mother hen. Let us get you home before you sink into the floor." He grabbed Watson's elbow to guide him towards the door.

After acquiring a carriage home, the men entered the buggy, Watson resting his head on the plush inside of the cabin. "Sherlock."

"Yes Watson?"

"Would you make sure that I don't sleep on the rug tonight? Gladstone likes to sleep atop my head."

Holmes chuckled. "Yes, my dear Watson, I will endeavor to ensure that you arrive into your bed sans canine. And I have something to ask for in return."

"Anything, old cock."

"I have a connection who has promised me tickets to see Trial by Jury tomorrow. I am but one man, yet I have procured two tickets. Perhaps you would care to join me?"

Watson's eyebrow shot up. "Isn't that the one about a broken marriage occurrence?" His words slurred together near the end.

"Why... if memory serves me correctly. However, while I heard that their next collaboration is about the Navy, I haven't yet secured tickets, obviously, so we're stuck with what's currently playing, if that's alright by you?"

"Of course! When should I come?"

Sherlock, slightly inebriated himself, smirked at the inadvertently sexual comment. "You may arrive at six tomorrow so that we may arrive before the show's seven o' clock start, and afterwards, I was thinking we could take in some dinner?" He paused between mentioning the operetta's start time and dinner, testing the waters of Watson's social calendar.

"Yes, yes," Watson waved a gloved hand airily. "That sounds lovely, Holmes. Just lovely. In fact, I don't see why we shouldn't spend every night together, eating and drinking and such." Sherlock eyed the man sitting across from him with caution. Watson was not normally so affected by libations.

"Watson, are you feeling quite right?"

"Why, of course, old cock. Why wouldn't I feel wonderful? I am sitting in a carriage en route to our home, feeling warm from the sherry, full from the quail, and enraptured by my best mate's company."

Sherlock smirked, laughing slightly as the two men stared at one another in silence for the remainder of the ride.

"Up up and away, mother hen. It's time we take our leave from this equine contraption," Sherlock sang as he hopped out of the carriage and held his hand out to allow Watson to brace himself while stepping onto the road.

"Here's our home, with dear Mrs. Hudson, dear Gladstone, and all our worldly possessions," Watson declared.

"Yes, Watson. Now come, let us get you to bed."

The two men ambled up the stairs to their rooms, which Sherlock unlocked with his key ring. "Now, you go lay on the bed, allow me one moment to get out of this nice shirt you so graciously gifted to me, so that I might chance to use it for-" _For next Sunday when I watch you make the worst mistake of your life, even worse than agreeing to room with me all those much-too-brief years ago._ "Sunday," he finished breathlessly.

"That's when I'm going to marry her," Watson commented, grabbing a previously opened bottle of wine, removing its cork and pouring himself a hearty glass. He had ignored his companion's direction to find his bed and instead sat heavily at the small table which had held the wine and glass, casting his bowler aside and silently raising his glass Sherlock's direction before he downed half of it.

Sherlock had never heard Watson refer to Mary as "her", that was usually his denotation for... _her_. Sherlock mulled the words over as he set his cuff links down on a desk before starting to unbutton his shirt, carefully hanging it over a closet door. Turning back to look at Watson, he was quite surprised to see the other man drinking straight from the bottle of Merlot he partook in Saturday night while writing. "Watson, are you purposely trying to cause yourself to black out tonight?"

Watson pulled his lips off the bottle such that it produced a slurping noise. Sherlock studied the man's face. His lips were parted, wet and inviting, his eyes dilated and with quite a wild, unfocused look about them, his nostrils flared (much as Sherlock's did when he was excited), even the manner in which he held himself sitting upright was very... sexual. He was almost an animal the way he regarded the world around him. His pheromones must be racing one another to exit his pores. Sherlock shook his head slightly to clear the thought from his mind. "Come, mother hen, let us get you to bed." He walked towards the table when Watson held up a hand.

"Wait, wait! I'm not finished yet!" The bottle of Merlot flew to his lips as he sucked down the remainder of the bottle, licking his lips upon completion. He wiggled his eyebrows up and down at Sherlock. "Done now."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, his tone somewhere between motherly and amused, "I can see that."

"Then you, my dear Holmes, are a master of the obvious!" He always delighted in the way Sherlock taunted Lestrade on his failure to deduce even elementary facts. Watson's lips broke into a huge smile. "I know! A race. I'll win!" Sherlock was about to counter with the facts of Watson's impaired state and his disfigurement requiring that he indeed use his Pakistan War cane, but he was interrupted by a flurry of tweed and man as Watson flew past him. He stopped at his bed and jumped face first atop it, quickly righting himself so that he could see Sherlock head towards him.

"Why Sherlock, you have your shirt off."

"Excellent deduction, mon ami. (my friend) Do you remember me stating that I did not want to ruin it tonight? I was afraid that perhaps you might get sick." Sherlock stopped, standing in front of Watson, who had been looking up at him from his seated position. His gaze drifted down towards his eye level, and Sherlock noticed with a reddening of his cheeks that Watson was staring. Directly below his navel, as it were.

Holmes cleared his throat awkwardly, speaking slowly. "Let us get your shirt off, then, so that you don't stain it." Watson had resumed looking up towards his face as Sherlock lowered himself to his knees to begin undoing the other man's shirt collar.

"You're not looking at me, Holmes."

_There was a very good reason for that_. "I am... thinking."

"Would you like to earn a pee, Sherlock?" Watson made to reach into his pocket to extract some change.

Holmes grabbed the other man's hand to stop him, as he had become quite anxious with the current situation. "You should keep your money, Watson. We both know you'll need it soon." Again, his eyes were diverted, studying a window sill.

"I'll come see you fight still."

"I doubt that. You'll be too busy with doilies and other such sundries. Come now, remove your shoes." He had not yet finished unbuttoning Watson's shirt, however, he felt as though he needed a physical detachment from the man that was his closest companion.

Watson leaned down to slip his shoes off, keeping his eyes on Sherlock. "You are quite nervous tonight, if I were to be the deducing type of gentleman," Watson rambled.

"Indeed. Now," Sherlock replied curtly, moving Watson's shoes under his bed, lest Watson make sick during the night, "finish up with your shirt and I shall hang it up safely for you."

"I need more wine," the doctour remarked breathlessly.

"No. You need a good sleep as I know for a fact that you are to take lunch tomorrow with..."

Watson's hands felt to his lap before fumbling with his shirt's remaining two buttons. "Help me, old cock."

Sherlock bit his lip. This must not progress... He swallowed deeply before leaning forward, gingerly grabbing Watson's shirt. Why must Watson be watching him?! The last button was such that it fell right at his lap. Sherlock cursed himself for having to look down, his hands starting to sweat, trembling ever so slightly. He was finding it difficult to slip the last button through its hole, when Watson spoke.

"You can do it, Holmes. I believe in you!" He reached forward to run his hands through Sherlock's raven hair, laughing and moving forward on the edge of the bed. Sherlock coughed as his hand brushed up against the other man, before quickly pulling the button out its hole, nearly ripping it from the shirt.

"Please hand me your shirt." Sherlock blinked in rapid succession concentrating on a knothole in the wooden floorboards. Watson removed his shirt quickly, thrusting it into Sherlock's outstretched hand. Sherlock looked up, only to see the doctor before him, his skin tanned to a bronze associated with men home from war, whose sun-soaked bodies craved the sun's rays such that those same men would often find excuses to be alone, shirtless, relaxing for hours in silence. Reaching over his right shoulder in a fluid, curved line was the scar that caused his stiffness on cold winter nights. Similar scarring could be found above the man's right pelvis bone. Holmes' left hand reached out to the injured shoulder instinctively, tracing its scar with one finger. He caught himself breathing heavily, deeply, and felt himself looking up at Watson with hooded eyes, as if...

The detective found himself standing upright within an instant. There would have been no good to come from it. Emotions never result in anything remotely good. "Watson, you should sleep," he found himself saying as he crossed the other man's bedroom to set the shirt over a chair back. He turned around, stopping in his tracks as Watson was currently standing, unbuttoning his trousers. _Apparently, he's relearned the art of unbuttoning._ Watson braced himself on his bed's metal frame as his left hand followed his trousers to the floor.

One man can only endure so much temptation or so much torture before he breaks. Sherlock had been resisting both. "Please, I really must be going." He started walking towards the door to avoid looking at the lean, scarred figure undressing before him. If he were any other sexual deviant of the 1800s he would feel... aroused. "Good night, Watson!" Holmes nearly yelled as he lunged towards the chamber door, nearly slamming it behind him.

How could one's mouth feel parched yet as wet as an ocean at once? How could one's fingers tremble so from a mere nothing? How could one's eyes be forced to advert themselves? How could... one's pants feel so tight? Sherlock stripped himself of his own trousers , letting his shirt tails hang loose against his thighs. Perhaps clearing his mind would help.

After approximately two hours during which Holmes replayed the night's events in his mind, ensuring that Watson would be deep in an alcohol-induced sleep, he grabbed his violin. Quiet staccato notes emerged from the near darkness in which Holmes enveloped himself. A single candle was burning, its wax dripping onto its holder, finding its way onto the table. He would have to scrape that later, perhaps he could use it for a new idea he was forming, which involved a time-lapse sedative. After approximately two hours of a very lively but quiet piccato, Holmes threw himself onto his bed, ripping the sheet over his head, hoping that sleep would soon come.


	2. Monday

It was nearly ten o' clock the next morning when he heard a tenor's voice speaking to someone, a door closing, and the scent of toast, jam and... coffee. Holmes stumbled out of bed to open his door a crack, spying on his roommate. Without looking toward the direction of the creaking door hinge, Watson greeted him. "Hello, old boy." Why the hostility? What had he done?

It took everything he had not to parrot, "Old boy?!" back. "Good morning, John."

"Care to join me for breakfast, now that you're up?"

"I..." woke up perhaps a half hour after you, Holmes shook his head to clear it once again. "Yes. I do."

"Come in then," Watson replied tersely. Holmes stood behind his door. "Come."

Holmes took a few errant steps into the room, and almost immediately regretted such. He was still in his shirt tails.

Watson looked up, a smile playing on his lips. "Shy, are we?"

"Well, it's just-"

"I don't see why you're so suddenly shy, old cock, considering you're not the one who got fall down drunk last night." The two men stared at one another, breaking out into laughter.

"I will be with you just as soon as I cover up my assets," Sherlock joked. He grabbed the pants he had thrown off last night, re-entered them, and went to sit down opposite his partner in crime. "Do you remember last night?"

"Indeed! I am just glad Mrs. Hudson didn't catch us coming in! However, while I know it's mostly my doing, I am a bit sore with you for allowing me to imbibe so much last night, Holmes."

"How are your addictions my fault?!" Holmes asked incredulously.

"Addictions? What addiction do I have other than to gambling and your friendship?"

That did it – there was nothing Holmes could say to that. "I... did not force you to drink, my dear Watson."

"Well, at any rate, last night is going to make it tough to take tea with Mary's parents."

"You do remember that you agreed to come to the theatre with me, yes?" Holmes asked tentatively.

Watson took a bite of his toast. "Indeed Holmes, I remember." His eyes held a mischievous gleam. "Just promise me you won't get me drunk tonight."

Despite the general consensus consisting mainly of Dr. John Watson and Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes did occasionally enjoy fresh air inside his chambers. This Monday before Watson was to be married was such a day. Holmes flew open his windows, breathing in the complex spring air. Flowers, baking bread, and spun sugar assaulted his senses. How blissful it must be, living amongst such sights, scents, flavours... Indeed, Watson would soon be journeying out into such world, with a new bride on his arm. Dr. John Watson, who joined the Queen's services at the age of 19 at the urging of his father that he stop being such a "pansy". Eager to distance himself from that dangerous word, Watson joined the army and studied medicine both in university and out on the field. He was a veteran of the Pakistan War, receiving the customary cane the Queen awarded all her soldiers wounded in action. The government had found it a superior token of appreciation over that of a medal, as it not only had practical value (especially with the addition of a sheathed blade), but many medals spent a long portion of their lives in pawn stores, as soldiers addicted to drugs, alcohol, gambling, or a combination of the three would often put their dignity in hock for a few pounds to last them until their big payout... or their next pension check.

In an attempt to divorce himself from any confusing emotions he had experienced the evening prior, Holmes whirled about his rooms in a fury of excitement after changing out of the rest of his previous night's outfit. Perhaps he should review the letters for his service once more. Perhaps he should work on that wax-encapsulated sedative. Perhaps he should review the Blackwood case just to ensure he didn't overlook any minute detail of Blackwood's near-genius. Holmes smiled to himself- if it had not been for Watson, he would have been in the morgue several times over in that matter. Perhaps he was losing his touch. Perhaps he was growing old. No, not old, just older. "We cannot stay in our primes indefinitely, old cock," Watson warned him once. That still didn't mean he was going to go into this good night gently, Sherlock sniffed to himself.

After flitting about for over a half hour, Holmes settled himself in front of his music stand, pencil behind one ear, while he worked out the notes to a song he had been toying with for the past few months. Over two pages full of notations, his eyes were closed as he cradled his violin and hummed softly to himself, when he heard loud voices outside his window.

"All I'm saying, John, is that for someone who's getting married on Sunday, you're still acting like quite the bachelor!" Holmes knew that voice, after encountering it only once. In his haste, he dropped his violin to the floor as he ran to the window, crouching by the sill so as not to be seen by the quarreling parties outside.

"No, you listen! Just because you are a bachelor, doesn't mean you should live like one. My parents were waiting John, waiting! Will you make them wait at our wedding? And that's another thing, if you're planning to come with him to our wedding, you'd better think again."

"I know! I know he's your best man, but that doesn't mean..." A carriage door closed quite loudly, as if the person leaving the buggy were angry, and losing a fight to control his temper. And Watson did have quite the temper, Sherlock mused.

Upon hearing frantic footsteps approaching his room, Sherlock scuttled to get back to his chair near the music stand. He did not, after all, want to be caught eavesdrop- _inadvertently listening_. He had just reached his chair when he bumped into his stand, sending sheets of music everywhere. Silently cursing himself as he doubled over to pick up the loose pages, Holmes whipped his head up in time to see Watson wrench the doorknob, swing the door open and march into his room. "What say you, my dear Watson?" he asked with his most winning smile.

"I..." his hands were splayed in the air, his mustache seemed to be levitated out from his lip, and his eyes were wide. Dr. John Watson was enraged. "Need a drink!" He stomped over to behind Sherlock, where he searched through a collection of old bottles, most mostly empty, before he uncorked one, smelled it, and, apparently deciding it was safe enough, tilted his head back, his lips letting the wine rush into his mouth.

"Um," Sherlock straightened up and looked at his friend. "Should we perhaps have dinner now, or at least before the show?"

Watson stared at him, still wide-eyed, still looking enraged. What was he staring at? Almost before Holmes had completed his thought, Watson had rushed over, bottle in one hand, to stand in front of him, a mere inches away. Holmes could smell the taller man's breath – a mixture of wine and finger sandwiches. "Holmes... I," he rested his free hand on the detective's shoulder. "I am going to miss you so very much."

Overcome with emotion for one of the first times in his adult life, Sherlock was unsure of his ability to even speak. "And I, you." He spoke softly, as if in whisper, except that it was as loud as he could possibly speak at the moment.

 _I must not allow myself this moment of weakness._ "Which is why we must celebrate in style!" he declared, moving aside so that he could grab his one nice dress shirt. I really must have Mrs. Hudson wash this before... that day. "Since you're here a bit earlier than expected, we could have an early dinner, or perhaps a late lunch, and then grab a bite on our way out of the theatre, if it would suit you."

Watson too seemed to be lost in thought. "That sounds fine," he responded, quietly.

Holmes kept his back towards Watson as he stripped off a knit cotton shirt. As he began buttoning Watson's old shirt he looked back at the man. He seemed to be staring out the window, his mind deep in its own thoughts. Wagering that he was safe from being approached, Sherlock quickly exchanged a brown, striped pair of trousers with a black pair containing much less pipe ash and dirt on them. _Perhaps I should wear a vest tonight, I always look dapper in a vest_ , Holmes thought to himself. Sherlock practically skipped over to a closet, ripping a patterned vest off its hanger before sliding his arms into it. He grabbed his black wool frock, buttoning it before turning to face Watson. "How do I look, mother hen?" he asked with a smile.

"You look quite gentlemanly, Holmes. I daresay someone with whom you are not already acquainted might even mistake you for one- until you open your mouth, that is." Both men laughed.

"What about you, Watson? Shall you be wearing that same suit this evening?" Sherlock inquired.

"Perhaps I might. I was going to change before arriving but," Watson looked away, swallowing hard, "well, I suppose a man of master intellect such as yourself must have hear the fuss outside."

"Indeed, however, it seemed very much one-sided from where I was... observing."

Watson barked in laughter, "Yes, I must say, I can't fault you on that assessment. At any rate, I do believe I still have a fair amount of clothing here myself. Let me rummage around to find something suitable and after cleaning myself up I shall emerge from chrysalis looking like a proper gentleman."

"A proper gentleman who consistently carries a blade with him," Holmes added, before watching Watson turn and leave his room. Holmes turned back to his violin, however, instead of trying to take down the notations of the song inside him, he preferred to instead play a slow waltz, letting the reverberations of his bow sound out. One can often lose time when immersed in unending melody, as is what happened to Holmes this very time. Watson had, without knocking, entered through a doorway, leaning upon it to enjoy a private concert. Holmes was quite unaware of his audience until Watson sucked on an orange slice, causing the musician to snap his head up.

"How long have you been there?" he asked.

"Long enough to become lulled into a sense of complacency and pleasure, Sherlock. I'm sorry for interrupting you."

"No, it's quite alright, I was just... playing."

"I know, but I shall miss it, I'm afraid, after this week."

"You won't miss the four a.m. concerts," Sherlock smirked.

"No, not those. Although," Watson's mind went back to several occasions wherein after Sherlock had awoken him in the early morning via his violin, when the men would drink until the sun rose. "perhaps. Perhaps I will miss those too." He returned the smile.

"Although perhaps you will learn not to miss your mouth." Sherlock approached Watson, lifting a hand to retrieve a bit of orange that had lodged itself in the normally impeccably kept mustache. He allowed the back of his hand to graze Watson's cheek, ever so slightly. Before having to beat his emotions down, Holmes turned towards the door.

"Shall we go?"

The men had a lovely meal together. Per usual, Sherlock ordered for them both. This time they dined at The Savoie, feasting on sole, which Holmes paired with a lovely Sémillon for Watson. (He had decided to go dry for the next week, in telling himself that he was experimenting, when in actuality he wanted a clear mind with which to debate what he would do on Sunday, at the wedding.) A dark chocolate mousse with raspberries was served for dessert. Watson nearly scraped the side of his dish with a finger, he enjoyed it so much.

"Here, take the rest of mine," Sherlock offered. "While I don't deny that it is quite nice, I'm obviously not enjoying it as much as you."

"Thanks!" Watson reached over, finishing half of Holmes' mousse. After the last spoonful he positioned the utensil in front of his mouth and licked the spoon, fluttering his eyebrows playful at Holmes. "I will have to find a way to thank you!"

Holmes allowed his eyes to close for a moment, his lips curved into a smile. Of all the propositions that could have come from his mouth, he said simply, "Just say you'll accompany me tomorrow so that I can win a tidy sum as a gift for you."

"A fight? Again? You just did one last month. Why? When will you give it up? I'm sure there's other blokes wanting a shot at the winnings too!"

"I told you, I want it to be a gift for you." He diverted his eyes upon the thought of aiding Watson and Mary in marital bliss. "Besides, I'm beginning to think that I won't be able to work quite as much after-" a pause, "this."

"What? Why is that, old cock?" Give the man a bit of chocolate and wine and he's sweet as pie. "Surely fighting is much more dangerous!"

"No Watson, it is not. Indeed, these past few years you have given me something I didn't realise I had needed- protection. You are quite the voracious fighter, and have proven invaluable to me on several occasions. In fact, upon reflection, if I had been without you in our last case, I'm almost certain that Blackwood or one of his goons would have made good with me." Holmes was very matter-of-fact about his explanation. His emotions must not show, if he had any hope of convincing Watson to stay on with him.

"Surely, you're exaggerating, Holmes! I myself am not as lively as when we first met."

"Ah, yes!" The detective's eyes glittered, his excitement was getting the better of him. "But that's just it! Neither am I! In fact, I should say that I require your assistance more than ever, now! In fact, you should have met me a few years time. You could have served me loyally, side-by-side for the end of my career, not when I was in my prime, fully capable of handling myself."

"What about that first fight when your nose was broken and you couldn't remember anything for days afterwards?" Watson countered, picking up his goblet of wine.

"That's different. That was fighting. Not... working on a case. That was me putting myself out to ensure that I would not have to search in vain for a new boarder." Watson smirked at the jab at his gambling. _Always with the gambling_ – Holmes never knew when to leave well enough alone.

"Watch it, old boy. I may be a grizzled old soldier, but I can still put up quite a fight."

"Perhaps we should find out once we go home," Sherlock retorted, shocking himself with his candidness. Why had he said such a thing, he had not even sampled tonight's vintage!

"Perhaps!" Watson broke into laughter, catching Sherlock's eye. Both men snickered before Watson cleared his throat and Sherlock looked away, decidedly searching out their waiter to settle their bill.

The show was more then adequate – in fact, it was quite a delightful piece of fluff. As with most collaborations between the two, this Gilbert and Sullivan operetta ended on a happy note, with everyone paired up with someone to love. "If only life could be so easy," Watson remarked as the men were on the street corner, hailing a carriage.

"Whatever do you mean?" Sherlock knew that Watson wasn't quite himself – be it from his earlier fight with her or the sheer amount of liquor and sweets he had ingested in the past few days.

"I mean, it's too bad we couldn't all be paired up with someone to adore us!"

Sherlock waited until they had stepped into the buggy to continue their conversation. "What would you propose, then?"

"I dunno," Watson replied, taking off his hat and lying it on the seat next to him. "I just suppose it would be quite nice if you were married, perhaps if things had worked out with –" He stopped. _Why in the hell would I ever think to voice such a thing?,_ he wondered.

"You. You're telling me that I should have rushed into the arms of the woman whose arms I not only did rush into – albeit reluctantly – but that I should have somehow convinced her not to steal everything of worth before leaving me? Watson, why is it that you suppose that you have never once seen me with a woman?" His blood pressure was rising, and he worked to keep his voice below a shout.

"I only meant – " Watson began.

Holmes cut him off. "You only meant to tell me that living my life the way I have for these past years, being content, working towards greater truths, assisting grieving families who otherwise would not be allowed any respite from their suffering if left solely in the hands of Lestrade, that I am meant not for something more, but for something less? Convention. Forced stability? And you think you'll be so much better with your trout-faced fiancée whose vanilla outlook on life will bore you once you desire your chocolate mousse once again? I," Holmes' indignation forced him to pause. "I was never cut out for such banality, such boredom, old boy. You – I didn't think you were either, until you obviously felt as though you must once again push past the vulgar image of that 'pansy' that your father laid on you. I can't rightly see how you can go off, leaving me for her, and expect that you'll be happy." Holmes directed his body towards the window, staring out, jaw clenched, at the dark London night.

"Sherlock," Watson began. When other man would not acknowledge him he tried again. "Holmes." No response. He tried again, "Holmes!" Desperation gripping him, he reached out a gloved-hand to grab Sherlock's hand, which rested on his knee. That got Sherlock's attention.

"Sherlock, my dearest friend, my brother, please do not think me insensitive to your needs and feelings. But even a man so entrenched in logic and science as yourself must feel a longing to connect with another every so often."

Holmes looked at Watson, and then glanced at the gloved hand upon his own. _If only you knew, if only you realised what my body truly desired!_

"I... am fully content with you as my chamber-mate. Someone to share the rent and share the wine, as it were. That's all I truly desire."

"So, I am a virtual bank to you?" Watson smirked, squeezing Sherlock's hand and knee before leaning back and lightening the mood with an old army joke.

A few blocks away from Baker Street Watson gently kicked Sherlock. "I think we should walk home."

Holmes had noticed that they were in the vicinity of a bar well-known for its card and dice games. "Do you honestly think that is your brightest of ideas?"

Watson shrugged. "I don't see what's wrong with it. I mean, what with the sweet, dewy spring air upon us."

"It is supposed to rain sometime in the near future."

"The near future could be next week. I've got a hat, and you've got your coat," the doctor persuaded.

Holmes sighed. "Very well then. Stop the carriage, Watson."

The doctor complied almost instantly, and in his excitement nearly fell onto his face when he exited the buggy. Holmes followed calmly behind him. "Watson," he asked.

"Yes Sherlock." He turned to face Holmes amid the dark night air.

Sherlock cocked his head, he was obviously thinking. "Nothing. Lead the way."

As predicted, the men found themselves in front of The Wicked Lady. "Perhaps we could step in for just a few minutes?" Watson suggested.

Holmes came to a halt, his lips pursed to a thin line. "I am responsible for enough of your sins, Watson, I will not be liable for this one also," he explained before beginning his trek home once again.

Catching himself staring longingly into the cramped saloon, Watson had to trot to catch up to his companion. "Sherlock, wait!" he called.

The slighter man did just that. Giving him an "I-know-what's-good-for-you-better-than-you-do" glance, the two men continued walking towards Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was at the landing as they entered from the street.

"Hello gentlemen."

"Hello Mrs. Hudson. How is our nanny this evening?" Sherlock asked.

"I've actually been a bit worried. It's been a tad quiet around here the past few days."

"That's because I'm getting married!" Watson chimed loudly. Sherlock, who had been standing very close to the doctor, instinctively inched away. Indeed.

"No last minute jitters then, Dr. Watson?"

"Nah, men get married all the time."

"Yes, it was only a matter of time before our Watson moved down to be among the ordinary." Sherlock scoffed.

Mrs. Hudson looked at the detective warily. "You'll be here by yourself again then?"

"I'm afraid so, unless Watson's gambling finally pays off so that he can afford both a quaint home bedecked in linens and china in addition to our shared chambers."

Mrs. Hudson looked at the ground. While she knew that Dr. Watson had been a bit of a gambler, his ties to the dice games ran a bit further than she'd ever imagined. He was the calming force between the two men. He always managed to pay his rent on time, and he never shot holes in her walls, unlike Sherlock. Of course, little did she know how many times Watson really had frittered away the rent on games of chance. Surely though, he would not willingly offer such information.

"I would love to stay and chat but I'm afraid we must bid you adieu," Watson explained, grabbing Sherlock by the elbow and guiding him up the stairs.

"Bon soir!" Sherlock cried out, raising a hand behind him.

"Good night, gentlemen."

After arriving at the landing of their rooms, Sherlock wrenched himself free from Watson's vice-like grip. "Shall we retire to my rooms for a drink, old boy?"

Watson looked like an angry school boy. "Is that what you really want?" he asked, sullenly.

"Why would I, of all people, not say exactly what I want?" Sherlock countered. Of course, he had been holding back saying _exactly_ what he wanted for well over a year now, although he wasn't about to change that tonight.

"Fine, open up then."

Holmes complied with the request, going straight to the table the two had used for their various liquor. "And what might I tempt you with tonight, mother hen?" he asked sweetly.

Watson's lips were pouting as he removed his hat. "I suppose a brandy would be nice, if we've any left."

"I have some left," Sherlock countered.

Watson's forefinger moved to stroke his mustache as he walked over to the fireplace to start a fire. Sherlock waited to hand the doctor his drink until each man had sat in a plush chair. Sherlock eyed a small bottle from across the room. "Watson," he asked, his nearly black irises turning gray, "would you like to explain to me why my bottle over there is almost empty compared to where it was a mere few nights ago?"

Watson leaned forward and spat out a mouthful of his drink in shock. "What? What, I, I'm afraid I don't know what you're implying." He accidentally made eye contact with Holmes, long enough for the detective to gleam the truth from them.

"I'm afraid you do, old boy." His mouth was wet with excitement, as often happened when he came across a benchmark discovery in a case.

"I... which bottle?" Watson asked coyly.

"You know bloody well which bottle. The cocaine," Sherlock spat.

Watson hung his head, peering upward to look at Holmes. "Sherlock... I, thought I needed something to help get me through these next few days. I thought maybe just a week or two would be enough –"

The detective's eyes went cold. He was that trepidatious about marrying his supposed beloved fish of a wife that he had to drug himself to get through it all? "You really are a mystery to me, Watson. And here all these years I thought I had you figured out, only to find that despite all your quick wit and cunning, you really are a coward after all. And to think Her Majesty allowed you the opportunity, the chance to get wounded in that bloody sandbox. I say, old boy, you really are something else –" Sherlock was unable to finish his sentence as he found himself being pulled up, out of his chair by Watson, who was gripping him fiercely by his frock's collars.

"Honestly Watson, if you wanted to show me how well you dance now, all you had to do was ask." While he wished he could look into Watson's eyes, he knew that to do so would most likely earn him a punch in the face. Again.

The taller man shook his companion before throwing him down into the armchair like an unwanted, old doll. "Why must you act so petulant, Holmes? You always know what buttons to push, and not only do you waste no time in pushing them, you enjoy doing so! Especially in these last few days we have together, why?"

The detective studied his hand, while replying sheepishly, "I'm making it harder for you to miss me." His eyes glistened with emotion, he wished he could run into a closet and hide. Perhaps with his violin, but he still wanted to be hidden from view.

Watson sighed, returning to his own chair and letting his head roll back on his neck. "Sherlock... how many times must I tell you? From the moment I leave the reception I will miss you!"

Holmes looked towards the doctor. "You never said that," he replied, softly.

"Didn't I? Because I've contemplated it and thought I was expressing it to you constantly in these last few days together. Why else would I refuse to move into my new residence even though I've started seeing patients there? I was asked a month prior whether my companion would also be moving from Baker Street with me, and greeted with a sigh of relief when I explained that you were staying here."

 _Ah yes, the older gentleman who prattled on and on about his blood pressure. I remember him. I am sure he's quite happy with his fat old wife as well_ , Holmes thought.

"Is... that supposed to make me feel better?" Sherlock asked.

Watson sighed again, this time with his head in his hands. "No, Sherlock, no. It's just... Je ne sais pas. **I don't know**. I just, I guess it just hit me then, old cock, that, well, we won't be around together quite so much. I won't have anyone whose gun-wielding antics I have to deter."

Sherlock forced a smirk. "You don't know that."

"Now now! Don't give her any ideas on Sunday! And don't go getting her a gun either."

"I'm not," Sherlock replied drolly. "As I said, I plan on fighting tomorrow and presenting her with an envelope of cash. I figure she can hold onto it" _for when you ask for a divorce_ "for safe keeping. For when you roll away the rent, of course." He smiled at Watson, finding comfort in the warmth of the other man's smile. For some dumb reason, no matter what he said, how he acted, or what he ingested, Watson never truly angered. Well, he might get angry, but he certainly never held a grudge. Perhaps it was some skill he learned in the army – that it was easier to survive if you forgot and forgave...

In a moment's time Holmes was overcome with fatigue. If anything, after having a full dance card this week he should be able to sleep well enough to fight off the depression this next week. It was Sherlock's time to sigh... and yawn. "Watson, my dear, I am so terribly sorry, but I am fading as we bicker. If you don't mind, I full-well intend to change out of these clothes, or not, and fall asleep on that rug over there."

Watson dismissed him with the wave of a hand. "Suit yourself, old cock. I'm just going to sit here and drink, and perhaps throw another log on the fire."

"Just stay away from my cocaine," Sherlock quipped before unbuttoning his vest and tossing it over the back of a chair. He lowered his suspenders to hang slack near his knees as he grabbed a spare throw and curled up on his favourite rug, using the tiger's head as a pillow.

Watson sat up well past midnight watching Sherlock. He also consumed several half bottles of spirits. _What exactly am I trying to do to myself?_ Cold feet, that was it. After being forced to change with the breeze in the army, he had looked forward to a life that included a scene of stability, despite his adventures with Sherlock. One could have adventures and solve mysteries, that was all well and good so long as he came back to the same apartment each night. Watson was about to embark on a majour change, one that included having to move away from Baker Street and the set of rooms that had finally, at long last, provided him some stability for the first time in several years. Perhaps Holmes had a point- perhaps he shouldn't leave, but instead continue to lease one room for those times when Mary was quite... hormonal. As she was this morning. And Saturday night when he thought that perhaps they might be able to...

Watson's train of thought was interrupted by a snore. He smiled, learning after all these years that Holmes never snored, except for when he first fell asleep at night. Watson continued to think, sipping some whiskey until the slow, steady sound of Holmes' breathy sleep lulled him into dreams of his own.


	3. Tuesday

Sherlock Holmes awoke to find that the dog that he and Watson shared ownership of was sleeping along his stomach, as if the two had embraced during the night. "Off, damned mutt," the detective growled sleepily as he stretched and rose to his feet. He looked around the room, recalling the events of the previous night, an air of amusement spreading across his face as he saw Watson stretched out in his chair, asleep from the night before. Quietly walking over, Sherlock collected up the empty bottles of hooch along with the glass that Watson had been using to disarm himself. And disarm he did, sleeping as if nothing in this world could wake him. Holmes took pleasure in knowing that the man in front of him was unfettered with thoughts of fish-faced women, dogs who would miss him, and gambling parlors. _I hope he's thinking of me._ It was a sad thought, as Holmes realised that he was mostly likely the last person at the moment of whom Watson would be dreaming.

Having the tables turned, Holmes decided to try his hand at making breakfast for Watson. Besides, if it turned into a disaster he could always bother Mrs. Hudson for a bite to eat.

Approximately a half hour later, Holmes returned from the downstairs kitchen with a platter full of food. Eggs, ham steaks, toast, jam, and coffee. Holmes figured that judging at the empty bottles laying around Watson's sleeping body, he would desperately need the coffee. Especially if they were to go down and fight. "Wake up, wake up, whoever you are!" the detective sang jovially. He would hate to admit such, but abstaining from liquor had been helping his moods quite a bit. Normally, he could turn downright morose and despondent at the drop of a hat, but – aside from when he let himself dwell on Watson's upcoming nuptials – he was feeling much more even-tempered and... reliable, almost.

Watson awoke with a yawn, stretching his long legs and arms while still seated in his armchair by the previous night's fire. "Is that breakfast I smell, old cock?"

"Indeed it is, mother hen. I made ham with eggs, your favourite!" Sherlock flashed his companion his best smile.

Watson chuckled. "You are too much. Mmm, coffee!" he walked quickly yet stiffly over to the table.

The men were virtually silent as they loaded their plates and grabbed jam, salt, and whatever they could shovel into their mouths. "We should have tea later," Watson suggested, between bites of eggs and toast.

"That would be lovely." Sherlock tried to reply nonchalantly, but immediately afterward cursed himself. What man tells another man that something is "lovely"? Perhaps if they were discussing women, but Sherlock hoped to avoid that particular subject at all cost.

"You know, I'm really surprised by all this. I mean, the eggs aren't even overdone!" Watson exclaimed between mouthfuls.

"I'm glad to see that you've got an appetite after your thirst last night. I must admit I don't often make a mess in the kitchen, but I'd like to think that when I do, it's satisfactoury." Sherlock took the opportunity to brag a bit. Detective, violinist, fighter, cook... a true Renaissance man was Sherlock Holmes!

"This is – this is better than satisfactoury! I wish Mary could cook like this!" The moment the words left his mouth, Watson regretted it. The only times he and Holmes had fought these past few weeks were when Mary was mentioned. Mary, with her fair hair, and her pale face and her... oddly-shaped nose, which was actually box-shaped, really, which made her eyes look as if they were a bit too close together... sort of like a fish.

Holmes was looking down at the crust from his toast, held between his fingers as though it was a surgical instrument. His hands could have been tailor's hands, or pianist's hands, or... he realised that Watson was looking at him. "Penny for your thoughts, Watson?" he asked, practically grunting the question out as he kept studying his fingers.

"It's just... well, I suppose in terms of beauty –" he paused. Why was he insisting upon causing a rift between the two of them? "Nothing."

Holmes looked up at him. "What about beauty, Watson?"

"I was just contemplating it."

"Whose beauty were you contemplating?"

"No one's," Watson answered, a bit too quickly.

Holmes sat back from the table, crossing his legs and smiling widely. "Were you contemplating my beauty, dear Watson? Is it equivalent to my cunning, my bravery, my intellect, my charm?"

Watson returned the smile. "Your superior intellect, your downright amazing wit, your unwavering and inscrutable bravery are all a constant amazement to me, Holmes. Your charm," he paused to raise his cup to his lips, "on the other hand, often leaves much to be desired." Holmes watched his Adam's apple slide first up, and then back down as Watson swallowed his coffee.

"Is it good?" he purred.

"What?"

"The coffee."

"Yes," Watson's eyebrows rose quickly before he suckled on his bottom lip, "Delicious." Holmes could feel his own mouth watering.

Despite being just days before his wedding, Dr. John Watson was not the type of man to shirk off his professional duties. He had patients to see, after all! As such, after finishing his late breakfast he shaved to make himself look presentable for his two-thirty appointment. "Come by for tea as soon as you're done," Holmes urged.

"Well, actually, I was wondering if I should –" check in. Check in? Why in the bloody hell should a grown man his age have to check in? "pop by to make sure she doesn't need anything." Watson replied, sheepishly. He had learned that if the rest of their bachelor's week together was to go smoothly that he would have to refer to Mary as "her" to avoid any heated conflicts or arguments. Or heated conflicted arguments.

"Do you really, Watson? Do you really? Surely, everyone should be able to live without your presence for a day or two." Except me.

Watson sighed, inwardly happy to avoid the conflict. "I'm sure you have a valid point, Holmes. That's why I'm going to trust your instinct." _I just hope it doesn't cost me my marriage._

"Good then, I'll see you for tea, and then later this evening we can win some scratch for your new life. After all, I won't be around as your sure bet anymore."

"Very well then. I shall see you for tea after my appointment, then we'll watch you nearly kill someone, and after that we'll grab a late dinner, if that sounds satisfactoury to you."

"Indeed," Sherlock smiled, "it does!"

While Watson was gone Sherlock experimented with his wax capsule idea. He already knew the correct amount of powder he wanted to use, he just had to work on forming the capsule. To help expedite his experiment he gathered four candles and lit them one after the other, waiting until wax started to pool. Perhaps he should use a minuscule amount on Gladstone, just to put him into a sleep so that when Watson arrived back home he wouldn't accuse him of killing the dog. Again.

Holmes worked quickly, with deft hands as he measured, calculated, and formed little wax balls in which to feed the jointly-owned dog. Gladstone had only been under for ten minutes by the time Watson arrived back at the shared quarters. "Hello Holmes. And what were you up to in my absence?"

"Do you really want to know? What's important is that I just put the kettle on for tea. Should I scrounge up some biscuits?"

"No, that's quite alright," Watson replied, removing his coat. "I am still quite satisfied from our late breakfast. Just tea will be fine, thank you." Holmes noticed that Watson had on a new pair of gloves. Not the brown calf's leather he had given him to replace the right glove Watson lost when he sacrificed himself to prevent Holmes from being trampled by the ship during their Blackwood case (the second one!), but new gloves. A dark... purple?

"Are those new gloves, old boy?" Sherlock asked, throwing in a warning for good measure.

Watson coughed. "Erm, yes. Yes, indeed they are, old cock. They were a wedding gift from... her." Another cough. He obviously didn't feel comfortable sharing the fact that he had accepted such a gift from Mary.

"No bother," Holmes replied, nonplussed. "Sugar, dear Watson?" Sherlock removed the kettle from its burner to transfer it onto an iron trivet.

"No thank you, Holmes. I fear I may develop rotten teeth at this rate."

"No worry, surely I will refrain from inviting you for tea here in a few days." The detective poured the tea as if none of it was a big issue at all.

"Holmes," Watson looked scorned.

"Yes?" he looked up at the doctour as he poured himself a cup of tea.

"We can still have tea together... occasionally."

"You replaced the nice gloves I gave you without a thought to my feelings, John." Holmes, dispensing with proper etiquette, grabbed a sugar cube from the tray and let it drop into his cup with a loud plop.

Watson reached out, grabbing Holmes' hand in his own. "Sherlock," he pleaded, with both his words and his eyes, "please, please try to understand." Holmes looked down at the hand upon his own.

His brow furrowed. "Will you begin wearing them again after you get back in a week's time?"

"Yes Holmes, of course. If it makes you happy, I know what a special gesture that was, and I would be wearing them now if things were different."

"You'd wear your nice leather gloves while taking tea?" Holmes smirked. He pulled his hand away, a gesture to show Watson that he accepted his apology.

The two men enjoyed their tea, after which Watson settled down to review some patient files while Sherlock lazed in a chair, his violin nearby. In truth, he was keeping an eye on Gladstone, to see when he would arise from his "nap". Based upon the small sample dosage, and Gladstone's weight in comparison to that of a grown man's, Holmes concluded (at least without further testing) that should he increase the dose to his model specifications it would knock out a man of approximately Watson's size for a good six to eight hours. Long enough to get a good night's sleep, Sherlock concluded.

Watson watched Holmes out of the corner of his eye, making mental notes when the detective made his own written scribbles in a cloth book he often kept on his desk. Perhaps it was his fascination with opiates, but Holmes seemed to dwell on the idea of sleep-induced states. Why would someone drug another? For how long? What would the drugging accomplish? These were all questions Watson had thought up years ago when he first noticed Sherlock's experimental trends. However, instead of questioning him, Watson was content to keep his eyes on a book when the detective picked up his violin and softly strummed the strings, his head cocked to one side, keeping an eye on their dog.

Around five o'clock Watson suggested that the two men travel out to grab a bite to eat before heading down to the tavern where Sherlock was bound to make them several hundred pounds. "Change into a dingy shirt," Watson instructed, "I don't want you bloodying a nice one."

"Thank you for your vote of confidence, doctour."

"It's not that I'm not confident in your ever-growing abilities, it's just that you always, always end up with some kind of scrape. Your nose, your eye, your lips – something always get broken open or closed shut."

"Unfortunately, we can't all be graced with your balance of natural and army-induced fighting skills." Sherlock smiled as he followed the doctour's orders, changing into an old, faded blue shirt.

The men enjoyed dinner as much as two men could, knowing that one man was to volunteer to challenge others twice his size. When they arrived at the match, Watson's gloved hand reached out to Sherlock. "Business as usual then, old cock?" he asked, his hand on Sherlock's bare shoulder.

"Indeed, mother hen. Remember to call for me if I appear to be in trouble, and I shall endeavor to make you wealthy," he smirked. He stepped into the ring and scanned the crowd for signs of his opponent. "Will you be coming back home tonight, my dear Watson?" Sherlock called into the crowd.

"Yes, Sherlock. I will see you home and there we'll drink ourselves into stupors and fall blissfully asleep." Sherlock had no intention of using tonight, other than pouring some whiskey on whatever war wounds he was going to endure soon, but he wasn't about to tell Watson that.

"Lovely. Well then, wish me luck." Holmes called over his shoulder as he trotted over to the other side of the ring, hopping from one foot to the other to loosen his gait and muscles.

"Bonne chance, mon frère!" Watson called out over the crowd.

Holmes' opponent was indeed twice his size, per usual. "Jimmy" was visiting from Liverpool, and built like an ox. Holmes' small size and swift feet helped keep him one step ahead of the lumbering mass of fists. Every time the larger man would reach out towards the detective, Holmes would slap his hand aside before counterattacking. After landing a particularly effective uppercut, Holmes looked over to catch Watson's gaze transfixed on him, as if reciting a silent prayer. He smiled lopsidedly to himself before ducking a swift jab directed towards his head. Within a few moments his adversary was laid out unconscious on the floor, as Watson collected their winnings and headed over to greet him before they strode out the door, the men intimately abreast of one another.

"I'll hail a carriage," Watson offered. It was the last either of them spoke before they arrived home. They had settled into a routine where neither man would talk so that Sherlock had an opportunity to absorb the shock to his system fighting always provided.

"Whiskey?" Watson asked after they were inside and Sherlock sat beside the fireplace.

"Yes, but just for my arm. That bloke had nails like a wolverine," he remarked.

Finding it odd that his companion was denying the chance to throw something toxic down his throat, Watson frowned. "Suit yourself, old cock."

"I will. However, Watson, do you think you would mind bandaging me up before you dive into your bottle?"

"Avec plaisir," Watson replied, grabbing a basin and his leather physician's bag before washing the dried blood off Sherlock's arm and putting a gauze patch over the bloody wound.

"Merci, mon bon docteur. Now, shall we sit and drink?"

"I thought you said –"

"I was hoping you'd be kind enough to fetch me a glass of water." A minute later Watson took up his chair opposite of Holmes', a glass of whiskey in his hand, and water for his companion.

"Are you anxious?" Sherlock asked.

"A bit," Watson confided. "After all, I have yet to sleep anywhere but here, with anyone but Gladstone for quite some time."

Holmes' eyebrows rose in surprise. "C'est vrai?" he asked.

"It is true. I thought that was how all proper men were to behave."

"I didn't," Sherlock shrugged.

"Adler?"

"Yes. After all, I had to see if she held any power over me."

"The conclusion?" Watson smirked, knowing that Adler had been the only woman to ever befuddle the great detective.

"I suppose it was stimulating on a physical level, but there was no connection like one would imagine between a husband and wife. That is why I'm of firm opinion that you should test drive all future prospects."

"Holmes! Don't be so vulgar!"

The man opposite of Watson smirked devilishly. "Or, at the very least, one should experiment to ensure that one's only feelings towards woman wanting marriage are that of the sibling persuasion."

"How on earth could you think about stripping down Adler – who has a very decent body, mind you – if you viewed her as a sister?", the doctor exclaimed.

"Easy. She did most of the work, including providing the liquor, and I viewed it as an experiment in my own sexuality."

"And?" Watson prodded.

 _And I decided that I don't fancy women as much as I do men._ "I decided that while she was indeed a beauty adorned in silk clothes, she was not what my heart desired."

"Do you think you'll ever find what your heart desires?"

"Do you?", Sherlock countered.

"I asked first."

"I asked second."

"I asked first, Holmes!"

"I already have. It's just a matter of convincing either that person or myself that it should either be or not be." Holmes replied stoically.

"What's her name?"

"A gentleman does not hope to kiss and tell."

"You're not a gentleman." It was Watson's turn to counter.

"Haven't you ever experimented with your sexuality?"

"Holmes, you're trying to distract me."

"And you're trying to get drunk again. Why does it matter what the person's name is? Honestly, it's more shocking that you haven't consummated your relationship than it is that I might have some sort of vague romantic inclinations towards another."

"It's not shocking... it's just –" Watson finished off his whiskey before grabbing the open bottle to pour himself another, "I suppose I always wondered. I mean, you've never once brought a woman into our abode, accept for that time I ran into Irene leaving that last time you saw her. I know of myself because I know what I do in my own quarters, however, you've never once seemed to act... sensual."

"Sensual? My dear Watson..." _if only you truly knew how I look at you!_ Holmes coughed, his throat becoming dry quite suddenly, "even I, the indelible Sherlock Holmes, am privy to carnal urges on occasion."

Watson started to laughed, and ended giggling. "Carnal urges? Old cock, the only urges you seem to have other than to eat and use the loo involves pounding all sorts of substances into your system. And Gladstone's!"

"What about Gladstone?"

"I know you've gone and poisoned him again, Holmes."

"Poisoned? No. I merely aided him in slipping into a sleep."

"Because that dog has ever had any problem?"

"If he's become dependent on my experimenting over these past two years, then yes!" The men looked at one another and laughed. "Don't worry, I'll send some of my newest your way in case you should wish to feign a headache during your honeymoon, Watson."

"Lovely. Thank you so much, old boy!" Watson smirked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Anytime."


	4. Wednesday

Sherlock Holmes awoke to the sound of voices in the next room. "Yes, I understand Mr. Mattheson, but I can assure you this is only temporary...yes, it can affect your jaw... Right,... in a week." Holmes heard the door to Watson's office close as a man, presumably of an advanced age from the shuffling of feet and volume of Watson's voice, started down the stairs.

"Good morning," the doctour said, his voice a bit less chipper than usual.

"Why hello there, and what was so urgent that the old man had to wake you up out of your whiskey-induced slumber?"

"Sinus pain. He feared his teeth were bleeding. Turns out he'd had some chocolate, making what he spat out look like blood. His jaw hurt because he has extra-sensitive sinuses and hasn't been taking care of himself very well lately."

"Lovely. It's a good thing you're a doctour, or you'd never wake up before me." Holmes roused himself from the couch on which he had been sleeping and stretched.

"You're looking quite wonderful yourself; disheveled hair, bare feet, and bandaged arm."

"My arm wouldn't be bandaged if not for you."

"You wouldn't have wrapped it up? Honestly Holmes, I swear, Lestrade would have stumbled across you dead in a corner years ago if it weren't for me."

"Perhaps," Holmes smirked. "Do you think you might ask Nanny to bring us breakfast while I put on the kettle?"

"Perhaps," Watson smiled as he turned and left the room. He had been prepared to ask Holmes why he didn't go see her himself, but he conceded to himself that he was much less likely to scare her from his morning appearance today than Holmes. In fact, if one didn't know better, one would think that Sherlock was quite mad, the way his hair stood up in the mornings. It was amusing, if not charming, but then again, after sharing their quarters for a number of years, Watson had grown accustomed to Holmes' manic looks (not to mention his moods!). After all this time, they were even a bit soothing, when not done to excess.

While Holmes busied himself heating the kettle, Watson went downstairs to search for Mrs. Hudson. A quick step outside yielded the morning paper, and a walk down the hall yielded Mrs. Hudson herself. After exchanging pleasantries, Watson broached the subject of breakfast.

"And... if it wouldn't be too much trouble, I would very much like to be treated with one of your beef roasts tonight, as I will be a married man soon," Watson smiled.

"Oh, no trouble at all, Doctour. Although surely your wife must know how to cook!"

"I suppose I'll find out in a few days!" Watson replied, before thanking Mrs. Hudson and heading back upstairs.

He opened the door to find Sherlock looking at his reflection in the mirror, obviously trying to determine whether he should shave today or put it off until later. "Go ahead and shave, you'll look and feel much better. In fact, you really ought to have a proper wash after our little adventure last night," Watson commented.

"Thank you, mother hen, although I am quite capable of ascertaining my own hygienic needs."

Watson took a few steps towards Holmes and sniffed, the stale smell wrinkling his nose. "Apparently not."

Sherlock responded with a hurt look. "Really? I smell..."

"Like a stale, sweaty armpit that hasn't been washed in a week."

"No will do. Not right now. I'm hungry and knowing Mrs. Hudson's prowess around the kitchen, our food will be up within a few moments. Unless, of course, you plan on hoarding all the eggs for yourself," the detective smiled.

"No, not even I need that much protein. Just promise me you'll bathe before dinner tonight. I've asked Nanny to prepare us a nice roast. I thought a quiet night in would be nice considering our exploits of the last few nights. Also, I want you to shave. You look like a ruffian when you don't shave." Watson's voice had the authoritative tone of a captain. Apparently, it was true – you could take the man out of the army, but you couldn't take the army out of the man. Watson's perfectly aligned shirt collar, belt, and tie attested to such.

"Deal." Holmes, while not quite the fan as Watson, always enjoyed Mrs. Hudson's roasts. Potatoes, carrots, and onions would serve as the perfect compliments to a succulent slab of meat. "C'est vrai, Madame!" he would often tell her, when the two passed one another in the hall the day after such feasts.

The men had just finished their breakfast when Holmes asked Watson, "What are your plans for today?"

"Catching up on patients I won't be seeing for the next week and a half."

"Work?" Sherlock asked in mock surprise.

"Yes, Holmes, you ought to try it sometime." Watson smirked. If Holmes had his way, he'd no sooner finish one case then he'd start another. However, he refused to take a case solely to earn the rent (especially since he could fight a few nights here and there and make that amount). To Holmes, it was a matter of ethics. If a family was suffering, if an innocent person had gone missing, then he would take a case. While he thought the whole ordeal with Blackwood the second time around was rather idiotic, he refused to charge as a matter of public principle. And while he knew deep in his heart that Blackwood was clever, but not mystically gifted, Sherlock also knew how the large hearts and small minds of London's general populace tended to act towards rumour of mass panic – they panicked. Panic on the crowded streets of London was the one thing the police always seemed afraid of, as if the city's citizens were posed to turn against London at any time. Of course, Blackwood's machine could have caused a mass genocide, if harnessed and utilized properly, and that was exactly why Holmes acted. After all, what sort of man would he be if he were to sit idly by and do nothing? Despite Watson's critique of Holmes' outside appearance, both the doctour and the detective knew what sort of character lie behind the masquerade of flawless genius and overwhelming arrogance that Holmes was so fond of displaying.

"Perhaps you could bring me along," Holmes suggested.

Watson laughed, "As what, a consult?"

"And why not?" Again with the arrogance and petulance!

"Because Holmes, not only do you know nothing about my profession outside of those anatomy and chemistry books you read, but when you had tried to fake your way as a doctour no one took you seriously!"

"She was the only one," Holmes replied, referring to the incident where Watson had walked into a trapped set of explosives which left all manner of shrapnel in his shoulder.

"While your outfit appeared convincing, your fumbling bedside manner did not." Watson stood erect, his legs parted, with his hands clasped together in front of him, as if in parade rest. "However, I've always considered it quite –" he paused for a mere moment, "sweet of you to go through all that just to be near me."

"I was trying to make sure you were okay." Holmes explained.

"I know, Constable Clark told me how distraught you were. He said it was the only time he'd ever seen you show anything other than a self-serving smugness." Watson's mustache twitched, his eye gleaming with mischief.

Sherlock looked haughty, "I won't get anything done while you're here, so you might as well go. Don't worry, I've got ol' Gladstone here to keep me company until you come back. Just make sure you're not late for dinner." He leaned down to pet the animal near his trouser leg.

"You poor thing." Watson gathered his bag, hat and coat. "Don't worry, I'll be back soon. It'll just be for a few hours. Then, we'll gorge ourselves on Nanny's feast and spend a relaxing night by the fire. And Sherlock, one last thing – Don't forget to clean off the stench of that other man and redress your wound before I get back."

Holmes bridled perhaps somewhat unreasonably at the suggestion that he jump straight in the bath. After all, he had things to do! Things like... watch the dog sleep. Deciding to multi-task, the detective picked up an anatomy book and thumbed through it. He felt bored, and Watson hadn't even been gone for 10 minutes. The paper! Watson had brought it up when he went down to convince Mrs. Hudson to work her culinary magic. Holmes hopped over the lazing dog to grab the paper before jumping back onto the couch he'd used as a bed the night before. While reading the paper wouldn't take all day, Holmes could always rely on his violin for entertainment.

It was nearly 5:30 when Sherlock finished scribbling out the last notes to his private masterpiece. He played through the notes to see how well the song flowed as a whole and was pleasantly surprised. It was a mere seven minutes, far from an opera or even an operetta, but it was still something. It was his. And, perhaps he would dedicate it to Watson. But what to call it? Holmes was never as good at naming things as he was at identifying them. Swindlers, cons, shysters, they were all so similar that the titles never seemed to matter. Perhaps he would call it "Gladstone's Folly" – he could tell Watson that he named it to memorialize the dog's affection for sleeping with his rear end towards Watson's mustache. It was quite a swelling, sweeping song, after all. Holmes laughed to himself, before realising that if he were to honor Watson's request that he shave, bathe and make himself presentable, he should dawdle no longer. Sherlock arranged the loose sheets of paper on his music stand, taking special care to neatly put them in order, and grabbed fresh clothes for dinner before stripping off his shirt, throwing aside his suspenders, and heading over to the bath.

As he ran a hot bath full of the odd vanilla-scented salts Mrs. Hudson had given them at Christmas, Sherlock set about shaving. As much as he might hate to admit it, he did feel quite a bit better after merely shaving. His skin felt... smooth. He smiled at his image in the mirror. "You are a handsome man, aren't you Mr. Holmes?" He lifted his hands above his head to stretch his back, letting his head fall to one side before suffering a whiff of his overripe natural musk. "Holy...!" Perhaps Watson was right after all. Holmes dumped a more of the scented salts into his bath before gingerly lowering himself into the sweet-smelling water.

Almost an hour later Holmes emerged from his bath both feeling and looking refreshed. He let his toes splay out as he strode into his quarters, closing his eyes and smiling as he inhaled and caught the intoxicating smell of shave soap and vanilla. His eyes snapped open as he looked across the room to see Watson's back to him. He was wearing a black frock whose tail spread out as he turned to look behind Holmes at the sudden excitement. "Sherlock! You're..."

"Clean? Dapper? –"

"Radiant," Watson said breathlessly, interrupting him.

"Why, thank you, my dear Watson." The doctor had turned towards him completely, his hands still frozen as one was pulling off the glove of another. "And you look, as always," _beautiful_ "the proper English gentleman." His voice faltered during the last part, and he was left feeling a tad less puffed up than before he'd realised that he wasn't alone.

"Thank you." Again with the twitching of the mustache. "Did you wrap your arm back up?"

"Oh, yes, yes. I did. Thank you," Sherlock replied airily. He had been trying desperately to contain his feelings, although he was not the least bit certain that he could do so for the next several hours, let alone until Sunday.

Sherlock's hair was perfectly coiffed, his sparkling blue eyes matching the fresh cerulean blue shirt he had only recently donned. A pair of black slacks with charcoal gray pinstripes, a black ascot, and a checked green silk waistcoat gave him the appearance of looking very well groomed, if not a bit eccentric in his ability to match his apparel. Watson, conversely, wore a light gray shirt under his black frock, a deep blood red tie, and black trousers. The man seemed to pick out his clothes to match his signature bowler. He really did look the proper English gentleman.

Sherlock was biting his lower lip, drinking in the other man's appearance, oblivious to the world around him, noticing that he wasn't the only one staring – "Hello there, gentlemen!" Mrs. Hudson's matriarchal voice rang out, breaking the thick silence. "My, my, my! Mr. Holmes, look at you! You look quite –" _cleaned up_ "dashing, don't you?" She turned to Watson, "Doesn't he, Dr. Watson?"

"Indeed," the doctor concurred, smiling. "He does. One might go so far as to use the words 'Sherlock' and 'amazing' in the same sentence." His eyes never left Sherlock's as he replied to Mrs. Hudson. Holmes felt his ears go flush.

Mrs. Hudson laughed as she placed a covered platter on the table that the men used to dine. "And, Dr. Watson, since this is most likely the last night I'll make you a big spread like this, I thought I'd bring up some of my homemade peach wine," she said as she reached into her apron to pull out a glass bottle shaped as a large hip flask.

"Thank you, Nanny," Holmes said appreciatively as he walked over to Mrs. Hudson to hug her.

"Yes," Watson added, "this is sure to be a special night."

The men had a wonderful meal together, laughing and trading light, playful barbs. Watson's glass never quite reached the bottom before Sherlock refilled it with the peach wine. Mrs. Hudson had obviously planned giving them the wine for some time now, as she made it only once a year, and it was normally all gone by the spring. She was well-known in the neighbourhood for not only housing London's premiere detective, but also for her talent of making a wide variety of fruit wines and brandies. As delicious as her wines were, Sherlock was staunchly avoiding the peach-flavoured libation. Alternatively, he switched between Earl Grey and water. He was, after all, _mentally preparing himself to convince Watson not to marry the fish-faced trout-_ gathering the courage to play his latest creation for Watson after dinner.

"I wrote a song for you," Holmes blurted after the men had left their dining table.

Watson paused, a quizzical look on his face. "C'est vrai?"

"Très vrai," Holmes confirmed.

"Well then, let me grab a cigar and you can play for me." Watson grabbed his glass and filled it once more before heading over to Holmes' tabletop humidor.

"Sit on the couch, please." Holmes trotted over to his music stand and hurriedly tuned his violin as the doctour took his seat, setting his wine on a nearby table before lighting his cigar.

Holmes looked at his companion, catching his eye. "Pour vous, mon frère. For you." Sherlock was posed to play, about to let his bow make contact with his instrument when Watson stopped him.

"Sherlock, wait! What's the name of this original piece of yours?"

"Gladstone's Folly," Sherlock replied, smiling before commencing his performance.

Watson listened to the piece, intrigued by the dedication and piece's name until he paid close attention to the tune itself. He was taking a long draw on the fine cigar he had chosen from Sherlock's collection when it dawned on him. It was a nocturne about Gladstone's funny little habit. The dog insisted on sleeping on Watson's head whenever possible! That damned dog! He ought to let Holmes have him, not just to keep him company, but out of revenge for this petulant display of... of... creativity? Superiority?... Watson refused to allow his mind to wander any further down that path. Instead, it would be better to best Holmes at his own game by enjoying this rather lovely piece. In an effort to do so, Watson took another drink from his wine, holding it in his mouth to let its tang wash over his taste buds as he allowed a small moan to leave his throat. He let his head fall back upon the couch back, letting a smile grace his features as the melodious tune flooded his senses. Despite the attempt to best him, Holmes' dedication to Watson was rather lovely. After all, how many doctours got such sublime melodies written for them? Granted, England had its share of tunes for war veterans, but this was his and his alone, and Watson could almost guarantee that he and Holmes were going to be the only two in the world to hear it.

The music faded away and Watson's head slowly returned to its prone position. The smile stayed upon his lips, and when his eyes opened at last his brown orbs contained the pure joy that was evident upon his lips. Holmes stayed seated, regarding Watson as if he were in a trance, feeling very warm throughout the whole of his body, almost as if he were indeed sharing Watson's peach wine. "It was beautiful," Watson offered, consciously ignoring the imagery of the bulldog sharing his sleeping space.

Holmes did not respond immediately. Instead, he just sat, looking at the doctour. "You liked it?" he asked softly, after a long pause.

"Yes, old cock. Very much so. In fact, I can honestly say that I have never, in all my life, had such an expression of affection drafted for me." Holmes' eyes gleamed in the firelight.

"I'm glad."

"Shall we retire to our trusty armchairs and enjoy the fire until our eyes can stay open no longer?" Watson suggested.

"Yes, my dear Watson, that sounds most agreeable."

The two men sat once more near the fire, Holmes reveling in the opportunity to have Watson's undivided attention. There were moments of silence between them, wherein Holmes would sit quietly and watch Watson drink and enjoy his cigar. Men with moustaches always seem to attract attention to whatever their lips are doing, and this instance was no different. When the men were talking, they enjoyed animated conversation. Watson would regale Holmes with tales from his days in the service, and Holmes would return the favour by interjecting stories of his own adventures, some of which were jobs that, if not for Watson's companionship, would have perhaps gone unsolved.

"Remember that case two years ago, when Mr. Morganson's son contacted us to investigate his father's seemingly innocuous death?" Holmes prompted.

Watson's brow furrowed as he strained against the fine tobacco and spirits to recall the exact case. "Wasn't that the one where his wife had gone off to live in Lincolnshire?"

"Yes!" Holmes exclaimed. "And with the maid, nonetheless!"

"What? Holmes, you never mentioned that!"

"But of course, my dear Watson. I thought you knew!"

"I thought she'd gone to live with her sister," Watson admitted.

"No sir! Watson, do you honestly not remember that the Morgansons' maid put arsenic in Reginald Morganson's soup du jour?"

"I remember that quite vividly, old cock!" Watson took a draw on the cigar before wetting his palate with the wine.

"Well then, surely you must remember that she did exactly that so that she and Mrs. Morganson could live a peaceful existence together, sharing a little cottage in a little borough where townsfolk didn't care how many beds were in any particular abode."

Watson, who was in the middle of sipping his wine, shuttered forward, spitting wine all over the current storyteller. "What?!" he roared.

Holmes removed a handkerchief from his pants pocket as he wiped his face clean. "I take it you just spat in my face because you finally caught up, not because you're still confused," Holmes retorted dryly.

"I... I, had no clue!"

"That is quite apparent now, mother hen. And truthfully, I had my suspicions upon first interrogating the lady Morganson and Ms. Weatherford, the maid."

"And how, pray tell, did you assay that particular... oddity?" Watson asked.

"It was a matter of simple observation."

"I was there with you and I do not remember any such inferences."

"You're telling me you did not notice how the two women looked at one another? About how their hardened faces softened when gazing into one another's eyes? You were oblivious to the way Ms. Weatherford's frame leaned against the right side of her chair while the lady Morganson's frame leaned to the left, so that they were as close as they could be to one another's bodies in our presence without sharing the same settee?"

Watson stiffened. "We were sharing the settee, Holmes."

Holmes sniffed. "Indeed we were, weren't we, Watson?" He glanced at the seated doctour sideways, smirking devilishly. "What does that say about us? Two grown men sharing a settee together!"

"It says nothing, Holmes. Nothing." Watson's straight posture seemed to right itself even further, if such a thing were possible. He crossed his legs self-consciously and gazed into the fire. There was no denying that he and Sherlock had grown rather close over the years they cohabitated under Mrs. Hudson's roof, and there was no denying that he admired Sherlock's many positive qualities, and there was no denying that – if not for Mary – he would be perfectly content to spend the rest of his days under the same roof with the man who often woke him at 3 am to the sounds of a furious violin, the man who frequently poisoned their dog, the man would go without a bath or food for days. Mais oui, Sherlock Holmes was that man, but he was also the man who would risk his own life and limb when Watson himself could not fight off his compulsion to gamble just to ensure that they had lodging for another month, the man who provided Watson no amount of excitement by offering him the chance to dive into the meat of the cases that Lestrade could not solve, the man who wrote the beautiful piece that was performed earlier tonight especially for him. Watson could not decide upon what he would call such acts of – _love_ – loyalty, but he knew that whatever he would call such selfless acts, he would imagine himself as a young man, aged 17, explaining such to his hard-nosed father. Mr. Watson refused to allow any son of his to be a pansy, after all. And surely, if his father had known about Mr. Morganson's widow and that maid, he would have branded them as "pansies", if only they were men.

"Watson," Holmes pressed softly, waiting until the other man finally looked at him. "I was merely –"

"We were together in a professional matter. I was merely aiding you, as you requested." The doctour met Holmes' saccharine gaze with a determined, hardened looked. The anger in Watson's eyes made Holmes look away. Sherlock sniffed again, in an attempt to control his emotions. Why must he be this way? John was supposed to be the one in the pair of them that balanced logic and emotion, who never forgot about compassion, and yet –

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," Watson offered, his voice softening. "I just – you know exactly why it was that I joined the Queen's service in the first place, and people who dwell upon the facts that we are two aged, bachelor men living together, sharing most of our quarters..."

"Don't give it a further thought Watson." In fact, I'm sure you won't.

"Sherlock," Watson began, his voice a bit stronger, yet still soft, his apology lingering. "Do you remember that case with the murdered horse, old cock? That was quite something, wasn't it?"

"Indeed."

"Do you recall that curious case with the myna bird?" Sherlock said nothing. "Remember Sherlock, how, if not for that bird, Mr. Russell's death would have remained unsolved?"

"Yes."

Watson, in a continued attempt to loosen up his tight-lipped companion, asked, "And do you remember what you said you wanted for your birthday that year?"

"A myna bird. But I didn't get one."

"Well, of course not, old cock. It would have shat all over and caused Mrs. Hudson no amount of consternation."

"Instead, we got Gladstone," Sherlock replied, a smile slowly forming across his lips.

"And do you remember where we found him?"

"Oui. We found him after a particularly interesting night fighting. We had to walk home because I'd taken a bad hit, and he was lying in the gutter, wet, cold, and starving."

"Do you remember how small he was when we first found him?"

"And how we gave him a hot bath, wrapped him in towels, and fed him broth," Sherlock added.

"You used my towel!" Watson exclaimed.

"But of course I did, mother hen. After all, yours was the more plush and absorbent of the two." Sherlock smiled slyly, having forgiven the doctour his earlier foul mood.

"And you put him, all wrapped up in my towel, onto my bed to sleep!"

"For yours was the finer of the two, my dear Watson."

"And I had to sleep on the floor!"

"You slept very well that night, you said so yourself." Sherlock countered.

"And when he was dry and rested he jumped down from atop my bed and joined me there on the rug."

"If I recall, mother hen, you said that you had a quite satisfactoury sleep."

"C'est vrai," Watson admitted. Holmes once again moved his eyebrows in a way that caused the doctour to start laughing.

"I ought to batter you, Sherlock Holmes!" Watson roared, before looking around to find the open bottle of wine.

"It's under the table, Watson. You put it there last time you filled your glass, though I should hope you wouldn't pummel me with that!"

Watson grabbed blindly under the table in an effort to procure the bottle. His left hand had started to tip said bottle over when he exclaimed, falling to his knees on the floor in an effort to prevent Mrs. Hudson's delicious concoction from spilling. He succeeded, if only barely.

"While you're down there," Sherlock began, his eyes sparkling, as Watson, still crouched and on his knees but turned towards his chair while his neck turned to regard Sherlock, "would you like to go to sleep? I know how much you enjoy Gladstone's company, especially nowadays as there is so much more of him to love." Watson set his glass and the bottle on the ground and turned fully to grab Sherlock by the ankles tightly.

"How about you, Mr. Holmes? Surely, one of your intellectually superior stature could lay down with dogs and arise sans fleas." Watson's hands were wrapped around the detective's stocking-clad feet, however one finger was grasping high enough on Sherlock's leg to touch his bare skin. It felt as though Watson were burning him with the most sensational candle on earth. A hundred years later some might liken it to the curious buzzing feeling one receives upon touching a 9-volt battery upon one's tongue. It was a very unique feeling, one that some people more than others seemed not only to enjoy, but to seek out. However, Sherlock was unsure that anyone who experienced this particular feeling (that he was encountering right now at the mere touch of Watson's skin upon his) would view it as anything but... extremely satisfactoury.

"You're assuming, however, that I would be adverse to rising with fleas." Watson snorted with laughter. "Now, if you would kindly release my ankles, it would save us both the embarrassment of me manhandling you into what most would consider a very subservient position." Holmes shook his ankles and the hands gripping them fell off, as Watson fell back to prop himself up against the seat of his chair, grabbing his libations.

"I've got my bottle, old cock!" he sang, snatching at the bottle again before holding it up in the air for Sherlock to inspect.

"Indeed you do, mother hen. And do you plan on finishing off that bottle tonight?"

"Why not?"

"I did not voice an opinion here or there, I was merely inquiring."

"Then yes, yes, my dear Holmes, I shall finish this delicious peach wine and crawl myself off to bed."

"Very good," Sherlock grinned. The men were quiet while Watson emptied the dredges of the bottle of wine into his glass. "Are you enjoying yourself tonight?"

"Oui!"

"And are you happy, John?"

"Yes Sherlock, I am." He finished off his wine and breathed deeply, his eyes already starting to close.

"Watson?"

"Yes?"

"Please, mon frère, just let me use the facilities very quickly and then you shall have the run of the place before you retire for the night."

"D'accord."

Holmes hurried to the loo so that he wouldn't keep his companion waiting for long, trotting back out to the fireplace to tell Watson that he had free run of the flat. "Watson, it's all –" Where was he? It had been mere moments, a few minutes at most! "Watson?" Holmes heard a faint snore coming from... his bed. Reluctantly, he walked over to his chambers to find the doctour and the dog both collapsed onto his bed as if they were hot air balloons that had long since seen the sky. Perhaps another night, a previous night wherein Holmes was quite sure Watson would never leave the comfort of these shared rooms, he would have shook the doctour with such force, having no compunction about rudely awakening him, that Watson would have bolted upright, shouting while waking. But not tonight. Tonight Sherlock would gently pull his coverlet from under Watson's feet so that he could cover the doctor from the cold. And tonight, he even covered Gladstone.


	5. Thursday

Despite drinking the whole of Mrs. Hudson's gift by himself, Watson woke up not only satisfied with life, but happy. The song that was running through his head during his dreams stayed with him upon waking. He was, admittedly, shocked to find himself in Sherlock's bed with the dog pressed into the back of his head, but he remembered that Holmes needed to use the toilet, and he remembered being extremely tired. He couldn't remember exactly how he got into the bed though, but he knew he had not taken care to pull the coverings over himself. Sherlock, he must have come in later on and covered me during the night, Watson realised. It made him smile at the overt act of kindness and affection.

"Bonjour, mon ami," ("Hello, my friend,") Watson sang as he crossed paths with Sherlock en route to the stove to warm water for tea.

"Hello, my dear Watson. How are you this morning?"

"Desirous of tea!"

"I've already started it, don't worry. Sit and enjoy the paper." Apparently Sherlock had been up for a while already. Watson sat at the table, but instead of focusing on the day's news he looked at the remnants of the breakfast Nanny had brought up.

"You ate without me?" he asked, looking over at Sherlock, looking like a wounded puppy.

"Indeed," Sherlock replied, grabbing a hot pad to shield himself from the heat of the tea kettle. "I figured that if I waited until you had an equal footing with me I'd be forced to live sans bacon this morning." He grinned at Watson as he added tea to the kettle and set it on a trivet between them, taking a seat opposite Watson at the table.

"You're right, mais oui. (but yes (aka of course)) However, I do appreciate you saving me a few slices."

"Just a few."

Watson helped himself to toast after finishing off the remaining bacon and potatoes. "So, what does the great detective have planned for us today?"

Sherlock added two spoonfuls of sugar to Watson's cup before pouring the tea. He placed the cup and saucer in front of the other man before leaning forward, biting the inside of his cheek as he thought. "Perhaps," he started, his eyes slowly becoming more lucid, "you would enjoy heading down to our favourite tavern? We could talk to the locals and you could drink yourself unintelligible again."

"Ha ha!" Watson barked, his mouth full of toast. "Why do you think I'll be the one piss drunk on the floor, Sherlock?"

The detective smiled crookedly. "Do you really want me to answer that, mother hen?"

"Why yes, I do, old boy."

"I not only would guess that you'll be fall down drunk tonight, I am certain of it, so certain that I am willing to bet you 50 pounds to prove my point."

"But that doesn't answer my question," Watson countered.

"So?"

"I asked you a question. You should answer it!"

"I have the uncanny ability to answer any number of questions. For instance, what wine pairs best with poached salmon?"

"I don't care, Sherlock."

"You would if that's what we would be eating tonight."

"I still wouldn't care," Watson insisted. "Even if you told me right now 'Watson, my dear, we shall be dining on a succulent poached salmon with mini potatoes and asparagus tonight', I would not care what wine you ordered."

"Are you saying that my expertise does not impress you, nor does it contribute in making your meals more enjoyable?" This time it was Sherlock's turn to look hurt.

"You still never answered my question," Watson replied dryly.

Holmes sighed before taking a sip of his tea, each gesture seemingly exaggerated by his companion's impatience. "I say that because you have taken nearly every opportunity – nay – every opportunity you have taken to imbibe to your fullest!"

"Now who sounds drunk? Every opportunity I have taken?" Watson mocked.

"By all means, go forward, old boy! Make jest of my words, the way you would mock an inferior in your toughening army days. Surely, picking on someone's speech proved that you were certainly no pansy. It couldn't be at all that I am more adept at my mastery of the French language than you and that such mastery occasionally causes my English to sound a bit backward." The man folded his arms across his chest and looked out the window across the room.

"Oh Sherlock, come on!" The man still refused to look at him. "Sherlock... old cock, please."

"What?" the detective asked, his head still pointed towards the window.

"How can you be so sharp with the one you love?" Watson asked.

Holmes' head snapped around so quickly it nearly separated from his body. "What did you say?" he demanded, his brow furrow.

"How could you be so sharp with the only one who puts up with you on a daily basis, and the one who loves you like a brother?"

A brother. It killed him, it truly did. "How could you tease the one you love like a –" he paused a moment. He was going to say "sister", but found a better comparison to lighten the mood. "cheap whore." The two men stared at one another, their lips pursed together into smiles, before breaking into laughter. "That means I still have a date for tonight?"

"Yes Sherlock, indeed!"

Watson spent a good majourity of the afternoon packing trunks to capacity with his medical books, journals and case notes. A good doctour always documented unique cases. Even if such a situation never occurred again, it would surely make the foundation for a good publication.

Anticipation mixed with irrational human emotion propelled Holmes to work steadily on melting candles and molding them into little egg-shaped pills, with one side much thinner than the other. He meticulously measured the barbiturate – enough in each capsule to put down a man approximately 6'2" (Watson's height, to be exact) for approximately 8 hours. Maybe he'll think to take one of these when he's off and then he won't... Sherlock did not want to think of Watson consummating his marriage even though that would most likely happen within mere days. It gave the detective a cold chill down his spine, causing his stomach to feel as though a burning poker were being thrust through it. Feeling his ears beginning to flush, Holmes left Watson alone in their quarters so that he could take a walk in the spring air and find a nice, deserted, darkened corner to be alone.

After about two hours the detective came back. Watson didn't ask him where he'd gone, as he was afraid of the answer. Or perhaps he was afraid to know why Sherlock had gone. The shorter man (who would be knocked out cold for at least nine, if not ten hours if taking a dose designed for Watson) had procured some crystallized ginger.

"What's that for?" Watson had asked.

"My stomach. It felt...'off'" he replied. "Also, it's quite delicious, though not nearly to my liking as much as pineapple."

Watson sweetly asked Mrs. Hudson for some scones and honey for their tea, which she provided just as pleasantly. He knew she always made her scones on Thursday mornings and that they were always perfectly set in time for tea, and that if he asked politely, his nicety would pay off in the form of a sweet reward. "You know, I often think she's sweet on you," Holmes remarked, biting the corner off his scone.

"Preposterous Sherlock! Why must everything be about sex with you?"

The man sitting across the table from the doctour sprayed a mist of tea across the table at him. "Wha? What? Me?" he sputtered.

"Yes, you!"

"I – hardly – never – no. I do not think about such things," he lied, maintaining minimal eye contact with Watson.

"Surely, even you, the logical mystery solver must get lonely."

"That's why I have you. I didn't absolutely need a roommate when we met." Holmes refused to acknowledge his mention of carnal urges from the other night.

" I mean, contact," Watson persisted.

"Gladstone lets me know when his ears need scratching."

"Human contact."

"That's why I fight."

"Fighting is your way to get into physical proximity with another human being? You really are a masochist, Holmes!"

"Whenever I am beaten, bloodied and bruised, you are there to prop me up, carry me home, and bandage my wounds."

"True," the doctour conceded, outwardly oblivious to the deeper meaning the other man's words could have conveyed at that moment. Of course, there were times of abject loneliness when Sherlock, quite sure that Watson was soundly asleep and would not awaken soon, would desperately find physical release in the middle of the night. He always headed straight to the bath, of course, but not before lying flat on his back, holding his breath for fear of the world ceasing to exist. It was a rarity for Holmes to feel so frightened, so alive, so... sensual.

"What will you do when I'm gone?" Watson asked, refilling his tea cup.

"I suppose I shall wallow away in squalor," Sherlock replied.

"No, I meant, if you should become injured."

"I thought you said only the other night that you would still come see me fight."

"Well, yes, but I would imagine that you might find yourself there more often without me around, and that, well, I couldn't appear every time - ..." he trailed off. It was vanity on Watson's part – surely without his constant companionship, general ability to provide for half the rent, and the entertainment he provided Holmes, the other man would feel compelled to seek out excitement beyond these rented walls.

"You flatter yourself, old boy. You're assuming that I need you." Holmes spoke very carefully, enunciating lest he slip up and say what was rising up from his chest.

"Really, old boy? You think you are that self-sufficient that you'd be fine without me? Who convinces Nanny to bring us scones? Who revives the dog when he's taken down by your narcotic experiments? Who revives you when you take yourself down?" How could he be jealous of himself? And everyone viewed Holmes as the narcissist!

"You do offer valid examples of your usefulness, Watson." Sherlock paused to sip his tea. "That is why, this last time, I am going to offer you the chance, nay, the opportunity of a lifetime, mind you, to stay here with me in the loveliness of confirmed bachelorhood." He bit his lower lip as he grinned up at Watson, using his eyebrows to tease the war veteran into accepting his offer.

"You..." Watson replied breathily, "are... incorrigible."

"And you will miss me," Sherlock countered. With every fibre of your being.

The men proceeded to their favourite local tavern, O'Malley's, around six o' clock, and had found themselves sitting at the bar with orders in for shepherd's pie by seven. Watson really seemed to be enjoying the atmosphere, although he seemed more like a man newly released from prison than one about to marry. The doctour had hardly finished his last bite of dinner before he instinctively turned his attention to a dark corner of the large barroom. "Now now, old boy," Sherlock cooed at Watson before finishing his own shepherd's pie. "I thought we decided you weren't going to become intoxicated tonight?"

"Intoxication is not the same as playing just a small game of chance," Watson replied.

"For you it is." He grabbed Watson under his chin and turned his head so that the two men were looking directly at one another. "Stop obsessing and let us order something delicious in nature."

"Two whiskeys, please!" Watson called out.

"Would you like a chaser alongside that?" the bartender asked.

"Sherlock?"

"No, although please, if you wish, do so. Tonight is courtesy of me." He reached into his pocket to extract a note before handing it to the bartender for their meals and enjoyment thus far. Watson barely gave notice, but Sherlock drank a large flagon of licorice tea instead of ale with his meal. When the whiskey came, he watched Watson down his own before handing him the second shot glass.

"But it's pour vous, mon frère," (for you, my brother/friend) Watson protested.

"But tonight is your special night. The night you prove to me you won't get drunk. Perhaps you'd like to sample my tea?"

"No, but I will take your shot," Watson countered, grabbing the glass and downing it at once. He shook his head furiously. "God!"

"Fictional entities have no place amongst the libations of man," Sherlock replied dryly, almost as an aside. He was watching the shell game in the corner, figuring it out in case Watson was fool enough to place his money upon the old man's table.

"Barkeep, two more, s'il vous plait," Watson called out. Holmes had learned early on in their friendship that the more the doctour drank, the more french he interjected within his conversations.

"Here 'ya go, mate. Would you like me to leave the bottle, then?"

Holmes pierced his lips together and looked sideways at Watson. Why did he bother declaring that he wasn't going to get drunk when he seemed bent on doing just that? "Do you really think you should be doing that, old boy?"

"Indeed. Nothing tastes better with shepherd's pie than a good whiskey!"

"Perhaps we should get another pie for you then, at this rate."

Watson shot his own sideways glance at Sherlock. "Do you really want to do this tonight, old cock?", he asked, gritting his teeth.

"Old cock? Apparently you still see the reasoning behind my question. Now, I ask you, do you really want to do this tonight?"

Watson sighed. Holmes had not expected to hear a tone of desperation in his voice. "Oui, I do."

Holmes looked at the taller man, whose eyes seemed to plead with him, begging for the opportunity to be irrational and emotional and rather stupid, all at once. Holmes returned Watson's sigh with one of his one. "Go for it." He turned to the bartender, who had been watching the conversation unfold between the two men. "Keep the bottle here, please." He took out another note and set it on the table. "Let me know if you need any more than this."

"Nah, that should do it with plenty left over."

"Consider it your gratis," Sherlock replied, smiling warmly at the obliging bartender.

"Thanks mate. Enjoy your night, fellas."

Watson turned on his bar stool to face Sherlock. With his left hand he poured a fifth shot and tipped it into his mouth. "Merci, Sherlock. You are..." his eyes went searching deep into the blue eyes in front of him, "too kind."

"Thank me again tomorrow, after you've recovered from your hangover." Sherlock grinned at Watson, smirking in a way that conveyed an understanding that went beyond the mere words spoken.

The two men stayed facing one another, talking, becoming more animated as the night went on. Sherlock was on his third mug of tea– it was imperative that he remain sober during these next few days, so that, if anything, he could prove to himself that what he felt was either independent or tied to his alcohol (and cocaine) consumption. It was quite possible that he never really felt unbridled desire for Watson, that it was merely a combination of loneliness and alco – the more Watson drank the more often he touched Sherlock. First his shoulder, next his arm, and finally, just above his knee. Perhaps there was a God or gods after all.

"Sherlock, I asked you what you thought about that! Aren't you listening?"

"Oh, no, I'm afraid I was absorbed in my own world and thoughts just now, my dear... Watson. I apologize."

"Well, if you're not going to listen I might as well go over there and just peek to see what they're all up to." Watson pointed to the shell game.

"No, Watson, wait. You can continue," stroking my thigh, causing jolts of pure electricity to travel up my body while my groin feels as though it's on fire.

"Continue talking about what exactly, Holmes?" Watson furrowed his brow, obviously impatient with his companion.

Holmes let a moment of silence hang between them. No, this was not subservient to his own drinking! "Anything you like," he replied, closing his eyes and smiling, as if intoxicated by Watson's mere presence. And he was.

"Dammit Holmes! You don't even care, do you? You're just going through the motions, thinking that will be enough to placate me!" Watson sat back on his bar stool putting space between Sherlock & himself for the first time since they engaged in their post-dining conversation. He poured himself another drink of whiskey before downing it and slamming the glass hard on the wooden bar.

"Watson," Sherlock had wanted to reach out and put his hand on the doctour's, which was currently resting on his leg. "Please believe me when I say that I was thinking solely of you, regardless of whether I was paying proper attention to what you were currently saying."

The doctour regarded him for a moment. "What were you thinking about?" he asked guardedly.

Do you really want to know? "Do you really want to know?" Sherlock threw him a winning smile before raising his mug up to his lips, maintaining eye contact the whole time.

"Should I be afraid to ask?"

"No, not at all, my dear Watson. I was merely thinking that while I had won money for her, for you I would provide a number of sleeping capsules, in case you should find them needed while you're away."

"Holmes –"

"You will be back though?" the detective interrupted.

Watson sighed. It was the sigh of weariness and confliction with a touch of relief. It was good to know that Holmes would miss him and anticipate his return. "Mais oui, mon ami. Of course. Do you really think I could stay away from you for too long?"

Holmes smiled in reply.

"I don't think keeping me drugged up on my honeymoon is the best gift you could give me though."

Why not? "Would you prefer me to kidnap you before you're departure? We could spend the week at Mycroft's estate instead!"

Watson smirked. "Honestly, Sherlock! What do you expect me to say to that type of proposition?"

Yes! "You could say yes."

"I could, but – no! No, Holmes! You aren't going to succeed in this, this marital sabotage you are so keen on performing!" Watson poured another drink. "You are –"

"I'm the person who knows when you've had too much whiskey," Holmes interrupted.

"Incorrigible!" Another shot poured and downed. "That is why, old boy, I am going to get up from this stool," he hopped off his seat unsteadily, the libations obviously impairing his balance, "and go over yonder to check out that very amusing, interesting game!"

"How can you know it's amusing if you haven't played it?" Sherlock called after him. If Holmes didn't go after him tonight would surely end in disaster! "Wait up!" he called as he hopped off his own stool, grabbing his mug of tea as he trotted after Watson.

"Step right up, kind sir, take your chance at the speed of my hand! Are your eyes fast enough to figure where the ball is?" the old man called out to Watson as he approached, the crowd around him opening up to allow him access to the old man and his table.

Watson reached in his pocket, forgetting that Sherlock always held his billfold when they went out anywhere liquor or gambling was involved. He looked behind him, "Holmes, give me a twenty pound note please."

"No."

"Holmes, it's my money, now don't make a scene. Just give me the damned note!" he hissed.

The detective reached into his jacket pocket. "I've found three fivers, you may have those." He withdrew the notes, holding them out with the tips of his fingers, looking away from Watson as the doctour greedily snatched the money from his hand.

"And what's your bet, good sir?" the old man asked once Watson turned back to focus his attention on the table.

Watson looked back at Holmes, just briefly. "Better just make it five this go around," he replied, throwing a note on the table.

"Do you know the name of the game?"

"Suckers need apply here!" Sherlock barked, his back turned away from the scene, while standing only a few feet away.

The old man ignored him. "Would you like a demonstration first?" he lined up the coconut shell halves and placed a small red rubber ball on the table in front of them.

"I understand. You take the ball around amongst the shells and I am to guess which one of the three it's in once your hands stop moving."

"Precisely!" the old man exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "Are you ready, then?"

"Proceed." Watson's mustache turned up slightly at one end, a smirk starting to appear as he felt the heady drunkenness of the thrill from gambling take over his mind.

"Watch my hands," the old man began, enveloping the red ball with one of the shells. "Watch my hands, they go slow, watch my hands, where'd the ball go? Is it on the left, is it on the right? Watch my hands, and you'll get it right."

Sherlock leaned forward, his lips reaching up to whisper in Watson's ear. "He rhymed 'right' with 'right'. Do you really want to get involved in this?"

"Shut up, Sherlock! I'm trying to pay attention."

"There's no need, but if you feel that you must, go ahead and fritter your money away, old boy."

"Where's it at?" the old man asked.

"The right."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock jumped up to whisper in his ear.

"The- no, wait." He turned around to scowl at Holmes. "Sherlock, shut up!

"The right!" Watson asserted, pointing to the rightmost shell on the game table.

The old man lifted all the shells in turn, saving the rightmost shell for last. "Aw, no such luck partner! Try again perhaps?"

"No," Sherlock jumped up on his tiptoes to reach Watson's ear.

"Stop that! Yes, once more. 'Just to recoup my money, of course."

The old man repeated his badly-rhymed routine. "Where's it at now?"

"Right."

"You sure, mate? Right didn't work so well last time."

"I'm sure."

The man lifted the all the shells one by one again. "Bulls-eye! Look at that gents! The young strapping man got it right! Right! It sure was! Now, how 'bout doubling that money again?"

Watson smiled. "Well, I suppose one more won't hurt." Of course, losing for a second out of three tries did not bode well for Watson's inner gambler. Unable to sit idly by– and whisper protests into his ear– Sherlock grabbed Watson roughly by arm, spinning the taller man around to face him.

"Sherlock, I know what I'm doing, it's just a little chance game."

"Watson, no, he's presenting you a canard. There's no reason for him to have a cloth on the sides of such a small table, unless, of course, it were to conceal a lever he worked with his foot that opened up a hole under the shell to drop the ball down. He's obviously got another ball up that baggy sleeve of his, which he deftly switches into the last of the three cups he shows you right before doing so to prove that, indeed, this wasn't a hoax the whole time. Of course, that's why he's been drinking bottled ale instead of the cheaper house draft, because the drunken slovenly patrons of this not-so-fine establishment are too far gone to realise his ruse. But not you, my dear Watson, no, not you, because you," he pointed to his companion, "have me, mon ami." Sherlock tipped his head towards Watson, erring in that he should have focused his attention on the very angry game handler in front of him.

"Listen up! The man said he didn't want you 'round, and yet you keep runnin' your mouth! Shove off!" The old man's demeanor had gone from a friendly barker's to an angered drunk's within moments.

"I have just as much right to be here as you, if not more, as you seem keen to scam people with your flashy trick table."

"Git or I'll –"

"You'll what? Hit me? Is that why the baggy sleeves are being pushed up? Come now, don't be so daft!" Sherlock turned to Watson so he could flash a self-confident grin, satisfied that he disconcerted the shyster.

"Sherlock!" Watson yelled, pushing the shorter man out of the way to avoid the old man's right hook. While he was successful in shoving Holmes out of the way, his determination to keep his companion safe meant that he was in line for the impact of the man's anger.

"You bloody bastard," Watson exclaimed, "you hit me!" He rubbed his jaw, hoping it wouldn't bruise.

"Aye, I did! 'Cos your daft friend here won't shut the hell up!"

"You hit my –" soul mate, best friend, only person in the world who might chance to love me – "my best mate!" Sherlock exclaimed, jogging to the side to avoid the man's second attempt to punch him. Adrenaline, fear, and excitement washed over him, and violence erupted out of his body as he landed a sharp jab into the old shyster's ribs. He felt a satisfying crack as the barker yelled out in pain. Watson and Holmes were enclosed by fellow bar patrons who started to get involved. A large man grabbed hold of Watson's arm, squeezing it tightly.

"You'll get your paws off me right now if you know what's good for you!" he barked.

"You gonna stop me?" the man asked. Having temporarily paralyzed Watson's first assailant, Sherlock turned and ran into Watson's current attacker. He didn't have far to run, but he aimed his shoulder for the man's side, effectively ramming him in the stomach. Watson was freed from the unwanted grasp as the man went falling to the floor with Sherlock falling atop him.

"He will," Watson replied, smiling. He held out a hand to pull his companion back to his feet when he went tumbling face first into Sherlock. The old man had caught his breathe and decided that kicking Watson behind his bad knee was a good idea. Watson landed with a grunt on top of Holmes, their faces mere inches from one another. Any other time, Sherlock would be breathless and excited, although having Watson fall onto him amongst all the scuffle of the unexpected brawling left him... breathless and excited. Unfortunately, Holmes hadn't had a chance to get off the side of the man he rammed, and that same man decided he was going to get rid of all the unexpected weight bearing down on top of him. As he was shoving the pair of men off him, the bartender ran over.

"Stop it! Stop it! All of you! Jack, you okay?" The old man was holding his side, biting his lip and wincing in agony.

"Hell no, I'm not okay! Damned ass broke me rib!"

"We'll get you to a doctour, mate," the bartender assured.

Watson got up to his feet, dusting off his trousers. "I'm a doctour," he looked up with a crooked leer on his lips.

"You! You're a bastard! You bring in your bloody dog sniffing 'round here stirring up trouble for me and my establishment! I ought to have you thrown in jail!"

"We could have you thrown in next to us for fraud!" Sherlock countered, standing beside Watson.

"And I could eat your liver for breakfast!" the man the duo had fallen on interjected, clenching his fists at his side. "Jack's been here since Henry opened up the doors some twenty years ago, and you come in and accuse him of cheatin'? Who do you think you are?"

"Do you really want to know?" Sherlock asked, his head cocked sarcastically.

"Holmes, I don't think," Watson started, placing a hand gently on Sherlock's arm.

"But, he asked."

"It was rhetorical, old cock."

"Bah! He probably doesn't even know what the word rhetorical means!"

"Don't," Watson cautioned.

"But surely, he would like to know who could beat him into a pulp if so given a chance." Sherlock's soft, sarcastic voice turned steely as he locked eyes with the man threatening them.

No one said anything, the fight just erupted. Fists flew and a litany of profanities echoed around the room. Furniture was shoved aside, men fell and after a time, thick glass pint mugs started colliding with already scarred and battered faces.

Watson was thrown across the room by a local miner roughly twice his size and had thudded with his back against the wall mere seconds before Holmes found himself flying backwards right into him. Watson groaned as Sherlock collided into him. He let Holmes fall into his hands and rest a moment to regain his breath before Sherlock turned around to face him. Sherlock's hands found Watson's arms to help steady himself.

"Are you okay?" Watson asked, his hands maintaining their steady grip upon the detective.

"Oh, I'm lovely. Et toi?" he leaned in slightly as he looked up at Watson searching for any sign of physical distress in the other man's eyes.

Watson looked around the room. "Oh, I was just thinking how we could have stayed in tonight and enjoyed one another's company by the fire. And now, here we are, having incited nearly two dozen men into a massive brawl."

"But we learned something," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

"And what is that, old cock?" He let his hands drop to his side although Holmes' still remained holding his arms.

"We learned that our old friend Henry the barkeep has been in business with Mr. Jack conning people out of money for two decades now."

"True. We also learned that – Sherlock!" Watson exclaimed, grabbing the other man and pressing him against his chest as a table came into his peripheral view and flew past him. Sherlock instinctively put his arms around Watson's neck, closing his eyes to whatever was hurtling towards them. "Bloody –" Sherlock could feel Watson's breath disrupting his hair, the men were so close in proximity to one another. Sherlock released Watson to turn towards the room so that he might locate an exit to the commotion when the table's chairs came barreling through the air. This time it was Watson's turn to wrap his arms tightly around the man in front of him. Sherlock gave a yelp of surprise as a chair leg hit him squarely in the cheek. A cut appeared on his cheekbone and he shook away Watson's grip so that he could wipe the fresh blood away with the back of his hand.

"Let us make haste, mother hen! Follow me!" Sherlock crouched and started jogging alongside the tavern wall towards a broken window. Taking a look at the shards of glass still remaining around the frame, he grabbed Watson's cane as he broke out a clear exit for them. "Merci." He handed the cane back as he hopped through the opening and extended a hand toward Watson, knowing that his war injuries caused him trouble in making such escapes. The doctour took Holmes up on his offer as he climbed out the window.

"We'd better get back home before we find any more trouble!" Watson warned as they quickly left the bar behind them.

It was a long walk home, and Watson's bad leg had started to bother him before long. "Here, lean on me," Sherlock offered, raising his arm so that Watson could use him as a human crutch.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I am. I wouldn't have offered otherwise."

"Okay then. Thanks." Watson let his weight shift to the shorter man as they walked awkwardly down the street together. A passerby would likely think they were either drunks or lovers. However, neither was true at the moment.

After about a half of block Watson stopped dead in his tracks. "Look, Holmes, this just isn't working." The other man looked up at him with fear glittering in his eyes.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean, this!" he gestured with his free hand to Holmes' figure. "Let's just, well, let's get over to the edge of that building so I can just rest against it. I feel like shit right now."

"Oh, okay!" Sherlock's voice lightened.

The two men reached the side of a brick building where Watson was able to rest one elbow against Sherlock's shoulder as he put the rest of his weight against his cane, favouring his bad leg. "Is your cheek still bleeding?" he asked Sherlock, looking over at him.

Holmes reached a hand up to touch the scar. "No, it seems to have clotted just fine."

There was a slight pause. "Good," Watson replied.

"Were you worried?" This time it was Sherlock's turn to look at his partner.

"Nah." Watson met his gaze and smirked. "Maybe a little. I've surely seen you suffer worse though!"

The men laughed together. "True! True! And you, mon ami?"

"We wouldn't be up against the wall here if I felt fine and dandy." A touch of sarcasm laced Watson's normally proper voice.

"No, I meant your face, John."

"I, I don't know. I'll have to get to a mirror."

"You prop yourself up, I'll look." Sherlock shook free of Watson's arm as he stepped in front of him, leaning in close and touching the other man's face gently with his fingers. "Does this hurt?"

"Actually, yes. It does a bit."

"From the moonlight it looks like the beginning of a noticeable contusion, and from the feel of it, it feels like the beginning of a noticeable contusion. Congratulations, mother hen, you are the proud new owner of a bruised chin." He let his index finger trail along the edge of Watson's chin, ever so gently. When the doctour remained motionless, Holmes let his fingers trail up to the man's mustache, the tips of his fingers gently grazing his upper lip. Watching his reaction closely, Holmes observed a faint, yet discernible closing of Watson's eyelids. The other man's fair, long eyelashes gleamed in the moonlight. Holmes pressed his body closer to Watson's, feeling a rush of pheromones flooding his head. His lips parted and his breathing quickened as he felt his chest making contact with Watson's chest when he inhaled. "Watson," he said breathily.

"Yes, Holmes."

"What the 'ell is going on 'ere?" a loud voice broke through the darkness. "'Ave we got a coupla mandrakes here? Feelin' each other up in the pale moon light?"

Holmes turned around sharply to find himself facing a rather youthful-looking officer and his similarly-aged companion. "Ah, hello officer. May I help you this evening?"

"Looks like you were about ready to help your friend there," the other officer remarked.

"Indeed," Sherlock huffed, "I was. You see, Dr. Watson here encountered a nasty set of stairs, and as he's an injured war veteran, they gave him a bit of difficulty."

"I dunno, Ryan, it looks like these two were going to engage in some lewd public acts." Watson clenched his jaw, forgetting about the pain as his cheeks turned red.

"I can assure you," he answered, "he was doing nothing of the sort. I am a doctour, a respected member of Her Majesty's army, and an occasional coroner for your boss."

"And what do you think Inspector Lestrade would say should he hear about how you harassed and accused one of London's finest resources? I can tell you, he'd stab you both with your own tin badges if he heard that you were expecting Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson to not only deal with your wild accusations, but –" Sherlock's loud critique of the officers were interrupted by Watson.

"If you think Lestrade would permit us to walk home with the way my leg is feeling, you are sadly mistaken. Now, if you don't arrange for a department buggy to find us on our way back to Baker Street, I will make sure you're both stuck emptying the department's piss pots for the rest of your careers, however lengthy they might be. Now, be gone!" Watson saluted the two twenty-something officers who saluted back meekly before mumbling "yes, sir" and trotting off into the night.

After they had left Sherlock turned to Watson. "Nice, mother hen. Very nice," he smiled.

"Thank you. I figured your berating tone was the way to go. Besides, you know very well that not only will they be on pins and needles as they explain to Lestrade why a carriage was dispatched this time of night for a non-emergency, they will be trepid once our names sink into their thick skulls." Watson's explanation made Holmes laugh.

"Very nice indeed."

Within fifteen minutes a London police carriage had arrived to take them back home. Watson was extremely grateful as his leg was bothering him quite badly from all the excitement of the evening. "I swear, I should avoid you like the plague," he commented wryly to Holmes when they were well on their way back to their own flat.

"I didn't make you drink your weight in whiskey tonight."

"No, but you did let me gamble."

"If you remember, I distinctly implored you not to do just that."

Watson sighed. "Oui, c'est vrai. You're right." He stretched his leg out across to Holmes' seat while he rubbed his hip.

"Is there anything I can do for it?" Sherlock asked, his voice soft.

"No. I'm just not built for climbing out windows anymore, I'm afraid. A hot bath would be ideal."

"Then I shall draw one for you when we arrive home," Sherlock offered, smiling softly.

After arriving at 221 Baker Street the men exited the police carriage, assuring the officers that they would be in touch. Sherlock unlocked the door to the combined residences and allowed Watson to enter before him. After unlocking their own door on the second floor he headed towards the bathroom. He grabbed the bath salts along with a dusty jar of Epsom salts and combined a healthy measure of each into the tub before turning on the hot water tap. While the water was running he looked at himself in the mirror. It was quite the cut on his cheek, it certainly wouldn't heal within just two days. He wondered about Watson's bruised chin and whether it would still be puffy come Sunday. "Watson, it's ready!" he shouted at the doorway of the room.

The doctour was nearing the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt to peel it off his shoulders. "Here, let me help you with that!" Holmes offered, rushing to stand behind Watson to help him ease out of his shirt.

"Thanks."

"Do you need me to help you out of your pants too?" A smirk was painted across Sherlock's face, his eyes glittering with mischievousness.

"Really? You want to know if you can help me out of my slacks? No Sherlock, I'm not a complete invalid, I can manage," Watson huffed. "But you can set my cane aside somewhere convenient so I can get to it after I get out." He smiled back.

Holmes took the cane and stayed back to observe Watson as he walked slowly into the bathroom, unbuttoning his pants as he went. The door closed behind him as Holmes realised that he was staring once again, and he set the walking stick near the door frame. Holmes walked around the open area, trying to keep his mind straight. Perhaps Watson would like a drink when he stepped out. Perhaps Watson would like... some music floating in while he was bathing. Holmes grabbed his violin and pulled up a chair near the bathroom door. He started off quietly, building crescendo.

"Play louder."

Holmes paused. Had he heard correctly? "What was that?" he asked, his ear cocked to the door.

"Play louder!" Watson repeated from behind the wooden bathroom door.

"As you wish," Holmes called out before complying with the request. He stayed like that for a half hour, just playing serenely for Watson's enjoyment as the other man closed his eyes, allowing his head to rest against the tub's edge. The vanilla and Epsom salts released a pleasant, almost effervescent scent that swirled up from the water to tickle Watson's nostrils. He let his feet stretch out, his toes extended as far as they could go. He let out a groan of satisfaction. The music stopped. Holmes listened carefully. "Are you okay, mon ami?"

Watson let out another groan. "Oui. Je suis très bien." ("Yes. I am very good/well.") He let the water rush around his body as he moved his limbs within the abyss of warmth. He stayed enveloped in the sweet smelling bath water for another quarter of an hour before pulling the stopper to drain the tub. Again, the music stopped.

"Would you like a nice drink to warm you?" Sherlock called out to him from behind the door.

The door opened as Watson entered the doorway. Holmes nearly fell into him. "Hello there," he greeted Watson, bashfully. His eyes swept down in an effort to avoid Watson's gaze, only to notice that a large, absorbent towel was the only thing covering him. "Hello there," he repeated.

Watson blinked in puzzlement. "I just soaked in the bath you poured me, do you really think I'd be suffering from chill that badly upon my exit from the tub?"

Holmes smirked. "Perhaps, in just that towel."

"Very funny, however, a brandy does sound delightful. If you would be so kind, so that I may slip into my dressing gown."

Holmes did as was suggested of him, realising that for the second time since they arrived home that he was the subservient one of the pair. He poured Watson's drink and handed it to him before stretching and taking his seat across from the doctour near the fireplace. "Should we start a fire tonight, old cock?"

Holmes yawned in response. "Excuse me." He covered his mouth as another yawn found its way to the surface.

"Are you losing steam?"

"I suppose so. I must admit though, I thought you would be the first of us to fall tonight."

"Well, I think I did, if you include our adventures at Henry's tonight."

"Indeed. And for some reason I've got the feeling that I'm the one out a drinking spot."

Watson laughed. "Well, I won't be going back there anytime soon either."

"Yes, but you have different reasons." Holmes' voice had turned dour.

"But you didn't even touch the bottle tonight, Holmes!"

"You did enough of that for the both of us," Sherlock retorted.

Watson's right eyebrow jerked upwards. "Really?"

"I'm not the one..." he trailed off.

"What? What is it, Holmes?"

"Nothing. I'm just-"

"You're just being moody, again," Watson interjected. "You'll never find a woman if you keep it up."

"I don't want a woman," Holmes replied stiffly, crossing his legs.

Watson looked sideways. "Then what do you want? Ol' Gladstone over there?" He smiled, partially in an effort to lighten the mood, partially to tease his companion.

Holmes held his breath before answering. "I think you know what I want." His eyes shone as he answered, his voice a much lower tone than usual. He let his lower lip slip into his mouth, wetting it before letting his upper jaw brush against it as it slipped out of his tongue's grasp.

It unnerved Watson. "Holmes, you shouldn't look at me like that," he started after a quiet yet electric moment between them.

"Why not?" Holmes asked, no longer yawning, but instead staring raptly at Watson.

"Because... it makes me..." aroused? No, that can't be. "uncomfortable."

Holmes sat back in his chair, uncrossing and recrossing his legs in the opposite direction. "There's no reason for you to feel," he let the air between them hang for one moment, "awkward around me, my dear Watson. Indeed, it is you who know me better than anyone. In fact, I daresay, you most likely know me better than anyone in this whole world, far more so than Mycroft, and perhaps even more so than myself. And," he paused. "I'd like to think that perhaps I know you better than you might realise." He crossed one arm over his chest while the other pointed towards his face as he allowed one finger to stretch across his unblemished cheek, giving him a quizzical, thoughtful look.

Watson's mustache twitched sharply before he took a healthy drink from his brandy. He had an overwhelming urge to let his lip reach up to the end of his mustache to stave off any bits of the sweet liquid that might be remaining. Instead, he shifted in his chair, crossing his own legs as he used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth.

"Would you like my handkerchief?" Holmes inquired.

Watson shook his hand out in front of his body. "No, no." he replied, his eyes closed as he shook his head. "No need, thank you."

"John," Holmes began, his voice soft and supple.

Watson looked at him, his jaw clenched in unspoken dread. How could what most would view as a wholly wonderful feeling experience inspire dread, of all things, in any one man? When that man was due to be married in a few short hours and the one making him feel as such was his closest companion.

"Holmes, please..." Watson pleaded. "Don't."

Sherlock frowned slightly before he began to stand. "I was only going to suggest that you turn in for the night, mon ami. Come, finish your brandy – I'll take care of your glass – and go to bed. You're obviously fatigued." He held out his hand to the doctour.

"Holmes..."

"Give me your glass, Watson." Watson did as he was told, waiting until Holmes turned away before rising from his own armchair. Just in case.

"I suppose I am rather tired, and you must be, too."

"Indeed. I grow weary of this when I could be dreaming of... adventures and exotic lands."

"Sounds nice," Watson replied.

"You're welcome to do the same, however, don't expect me to clean up after you in your own dreams." He flashed a gentle smile to Watson before setting the doctour's brandy sniffer on a far window sill so that it wasn't in the way come time for their breakfast the next morning.

"Good night, Holmes," Watson said before yawning, grabbing his cane and walking slowly into his bedroom.

"Bonne soir, (good night) Watson." He kept his back turned until Watson left the room, unsure of what he would have done had Watson not turned and walked away.

That night, after Watson had settled into his own bed chamber, Holmes tried something he'd never tried before. He thought of Watson while he took certain liberties with himself.


	6. Friday

Holmes had fallen asleep on the couch draped in his red, tattered dressing robe. Gladstone slept on the floor next to the couch, as if protecting his master from anyone who might intrude upon his dreams.

While he expected a sizable hangover, Watson rose feeling refreshed and quite awake, aside from the tight skin stretched across his bruised jaw. He threw on a pair of slacks and a pale cream button-down shirt and quietly entered their main living quarters, where Sherlock was currently sleeping. He turned his armchair towards the chesterfield where Holmes lay and sat serenely in the silence for a few moments, before humming a tune to himself. After a few minutes Sherlock looked up from his makeshift bed, and looked at Watson.

"You're humming your song," he said aloud, his voice scratchy from its first words of the morning.

"Hmm. I suppose I am. I enjoyed it, despite your perpetual heckling."

"Gladstone loves you, I can't help that, neither can I deny it." Holmes rose and stretched, cat-like in his gestures. "What's for breakfast?"

"I could make oatmeal. I think we have some dry oatmeal, and I could put on the kettle for that and some tea."

"Lovely. You are indeed a good friend, Watson." Holmes thought briefly of changing into fresh clothes, but realised there was most likely no reason to do such. "What are your plans for today?" he asked Watson as the two sat down to eat.

"I dunno," the doctor spoke between spoons of oatmeal. "I haven't seen Mary in a while, so I thought I ought to do that."

"With your fresh bruise, that's a great idea. Then I won't have to search for a new roommate after all!"

"Do you really think you'll find someone else after I leave?" Watson asked honestly.

"I'll always have Gladstone, unless she takes him away from me, too," Holmes replied rather bitterly, before spooning a mouthful of oatmeal up.

"Honestly Holmes, why? Why do you do this?" Watson slapped a hand down on the table violently, darkening the mood between them.

"Don't ask questions you don't truly want answers to, old boy," Holmes muttered.

"You know," Watson began, pointing his spoon at Holmes, "maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you and Adler were a perfect fit, only you were too dumb to let it work out."

"Oh really?" Holmes asked, his lips pinched together.

"Really, old boy."

"For someone who is settling on marrying a fish woman to avoid worrying about what strangers think about him, you sure seem to have all the answers."

Watson grabbed his cane and held it in the air, as if to threaten Holmes. "You really don't want to do this, Holmes."

"Don't I?"

"I could beat you to a pulp here and now, take the dog on my way out, pay up the rent for a month, and no one would bother to even check on you."

"Spoken like a true friend," Holmes retorted before rising from his chair. "except knowing you, you've gambled away most of what you have and couldn't afford to pay up the rent! However, if you really need to work out all your perverse sadism on me before you attempt to mound your fish bride, then by all means, strike away!"

Watson started up from his chair, his cane still raised when Holmes grabbed his bowl of oatmeal and threw it towards him. The bowl missed and went soaring through the air, crashing upon the opposite wall.

Watson let out a cry of anger as he followed the bowl's progression through the air. "You daft fool! You think that will stop me? You think that will keep me from leaving?" The words barely left his mouth before he saw Holmes running at him, barreling towards him. Unable to maneuver his cane quickly enough, Watson tried to brace himself for Sherlock's collision with him but the two crashed against the same wall the oatmeal had just exploded upon.

"You bastard!" Watson growled, falling to the ground as Sherlock fell atop of him.

"Me?" Sherlock huffed between breaths. "You're the one who's leaving me!" Watson had gained the upper-hand and grabbed Holmes by his lapels before slamming his body against the hard wood floor.

"You don't care!" Watson screamed. "You don't care! You sit around all day, dirty as a hog as you smoke and drink yourself to a slow, pickled death!" he shook Holmes in the air against his own shirting with each word he spoke.

Holmes gasped for breath. "I do care," he panted.

"Horse shit, Holmes! Horse shit! You care for nothing but yourself and your superior intellect. You don't even care enough about the dog to let him alone for a week!" Watson cried out.

Footsteps could be heard faintly amid the ruckus.

Holmes looked like he was about to cry. His eyes were watering, his nostrils flaring with his every breath, and his lips were pursed as tight as possible. Without prior warning, a sharp, swift fist came up to his Watson in the nose.

The doctour cried out. "You bloody bastard! You ass! You-"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, are you okay in there?" Both men turned their head to look at the door.

"Um, I just got a bloody nose," Watson yelled out, holding his nose in an effort to prevent himself from bleeding all over. Holmes shook Watson off his prone form, giving him a scathing look.

"Gentlemen, Miss Morstan is here to visit." Holmes shot Watson a withering glance.

"I had no idea she was coming here!" he protested in a loud whisper.

"Really? You had no idea? You expect me to believe that?" Holmes spat back, also answering in a hushed tone.

Watson's face dropped all its signs of anger. He reached one hand out to touch Holmes' shoulder. "Sherlock, you must believe me." His eyes pleaded as though he were, instead, an innocent man begging to avoid torture.

Holmes frowned. "Well, she shan't come in here with us like this."

"What choice do we have?"

"John, open up!" Mary cried through the entry door.

Watson cleared his throat after using his cane to get to his feet. "One moment, my love. I'm coming." Holmes scrambled to get off the floor himself before the door was opened for the women to enter.

"John, whatever happened?" Mary cried, a gloved hand gently cradling his cheek.

"I was... we... I fell," he stuttered.

"And what has happened to the wall?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

"It's oatmeal," Sherlock answered soberly.

"And why is there oatmeal on my wall?" she replied.

"It's not important, Mrs. Hudson. What's important is that we'll clean it up today," Watson answered quickly, cutting off any half-hearted excuse Holmes might try to pass off on her.

"Don't tell me it was another experiment." She looked sternly between the two men.

"Alright then, we won't. Now, if you ladies will excuse us, we have much to do today. I believe Gladstone is in need of a bath, and it was most definitely a two person endeavour." Sherlock held up his hands to try to wave the women out of his living quarters.

"But, but John, I haven't seen you in days! I miss you, and I haven't heard from you, and I see you and you're covered in bruises and blood and oatmeal!" Mary protested.

"Technically, my love, the oatmeal is speckled on the wall and floor, not on me. And you shouldn't worry, two days and we'll have the rest of our lives together," he assured her, caressing her chin with the back of his hand. "Besides," he added in a stage whisper, "I promised Sherlock I'd help him with his speech." He placed his hand on Mary's back as he guided her out the door. Mrs. Hudson was less pliable, however, and stayed behind an extra moment to look between them and scowl.

"The two of you, I swear. I don't know what I'm going to do with you," she pointed at Sherlock, "when you are gone!", she said, pointing to Watson.

"You'll survive, Nanny, as we all will, somehow," Sherlock replied, a heaviness in his voice as he stepped forward to close the door behind the landlady.

After some pressuring from Watson, Holmes assisted the doctour in cleaning up the porcelain dish and bits of cereal. "Clean it up good and proper, we don't want Gladstone getting a shard embedded in his paw."

"No, we don't, especially since you'll be gone in the country for awhile," Sherlock replied, a bit stiffly.

"Actually, we decided we'd go to the ocean instead. It's the one time of the year we could go and enjoy ourselves."

"She's already got a rather respectable tan."

"So do I, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't enjoy getting some more sun. What about you, what are your plans for next week?"

"I am uncertain. I had thought that maybe I would wander off to Mycroft's estate in the country and perhaps get some air to myself."

"That sounds like it would be good for you," Watson responded, looking up at Holmes from his crouched position on the floor, collecting pieces of the mess in one hand.

"I haven't decided, however." Sherlock paused a moment. "Do you think you might have any occasion for coming back early?" he asked cautiously.

"I doubt it. Mary really wants to spend time with me, especially since we haven't... and honestly, it's been months since I've, well," Watson trailed off, the blush of his cheeks concluding his sentence.

"How long has it been?" Sherlock stopped and looked at the other man, gazing at him with his dark eyes in an attempt to ascertain untruths.

"I've been dating Mary for just over six months now." Watson was looking just to the right of Holmes.

"That's not what I asked."

"Holmes," a sternness came back into Watson's voice.

"Watson," Sherlock answered back in a sing-song voice.

"I told you."

"No. You gave me an answer, but not what I asked."

"How long has it been for you?"

Last night, technically, but – "I asked you first."

"I asked you second," Watson started to smile. It was a routine they often participated in, although their roles were usually reversed.

"Doctor John H. Watson, I am asking you, when is the last time you had carnal relations – with a woman," Holmes added at the last minute, his lips twisted into a smirk as his eyes glittered dangerously, locked on Watson's.

"I – listen, if I confide this in you, you mustn't tell a soul," he warned.

"And who shall I tell? Good ol' Gladstone, over there?" Sherlock pointed to the sleeping bulldog.

"Well, you could tell any number of people, like Lestrade, for one, and Nanny!"

"I would do no such thing, unless you begged me to, mais oui." Holmes smiled. "Now, on to the question. Who was the last woman to feel the true power of Dr. John Watson?"

"She was no one."

"Everyone is someone's child or parent!" Holmes insisted.

"True, but this one, she, well, I think her name was Gretel."

"Gretel? Did you sleep with Hans too? What the hell?" Holmes laughed. "And where was I?"

"She was some scullery maid at where I was staying when I was commissioned to perform that surgery on Mr. Baxter, the man who had come in from Ireland," Watson confided.

"Why?"

Watson shrugged, as he stood on one knee. "I don't know. I mean, I was already engaged to Mary at the time although she hadn't a ring yet, but, well, I suppose I was lonely."

"How could you be lonely? You're nearly always in the presence of her or me."

"Well, you weren't there then, were you? I was stuck in a hotel, a nice one mind you, bored, knowing that I shouldn't leave lest I find a gambling parlor, so I thought I'd stop down to the bar downstairs."

"And exactly how drunk were you?"

"Drunk enough to know and not care that she wasn't Mary. She asked me if I was alone, I said I was, she offered me a drink on the house, I accepted, she asked me if I needed help getting my key into my suite's door..."

"And the rest was drunk wanton prigging history?" Holmes interjected.

Watson looked down at the mess in his hands. "Yes, I suppose so. And to make matters worse, I didn't even finish up. I grew tired midway through, but it was still wholly dishonest and I have worked hard to forget it entirely."

"Of course, the good, respectable veteran that you are."

"Is that a snipe at me?" Watson asked, guardedly.

"No, no, of course not." Sherlock shook his head. "I just meant to –" Holmes interrupted himself, sucking air into his mouth in surprise. "Damn!" he cried out. "I got a piece in my thumb!"

"Hold still," Watson instructed as he stood and brought over a dustbin. He tossed the bits of oatmeal & dish into the bin before instructing Sherlock to do the same. "Now, give me your hand."

Holmes did as he was told, releasing his thumb from the grasp of his other hand so that Watson could examine the severity of the cut. "Come, let's get you into the bathroom, quick as you please." He held out a hand for Sherlock to use as leverage in standing up before guiding the other man towards the washroom. "Hold it just like this until I get my bag from the other room. Don't move."

"I wasn't planning on it," Holmes replied dryly, intending for Watson to catch the double-meaning in his words.

Watson returned in just over a minute's time with his doctour's bag. "You must have really been hopping to get back so quickly," Holmes remarked.

"Perhaps. Or, I was just oblivious to the random things bumping into my legs. You know, tables, trunks, all your assorted sundry." Watson smiled at Holmes. "Now, let your doctour take a look at what you've done to yourself." Watson's face turned serious as he examined Holmes' thumb, checking carefully to determine whether or not a shard of porcelain had managed to lodge itself into Sherlock's thumb.

"Ow!"

"Hold still. I need to check."

"Ow!" Sherlock repeated, jerking his thumb back. However, Watson was used to his patients' knee-jerk reactions to pain and had been holding onto Holmes with a grip that would not surrender.

"I told you to hold still, now do as I say," Watson commanded coldly, obviously withdrawing himself emotionally from the situation. He grabbed a pair of tweezers from his bag, "I think you've got something in there."

"Joy."

"Shush and let me work," Watson replied, bending in to get a closer look at his patient's cut.

Holmes closed his eyes while Watson felt around inside his thumb. How could one small piece of trash cause so much harm? He opened his eyes once the pain started to subside to notice Watson turning his thumb so that he could check it out in the light via several angles. The doctor grabbed a bit of gauze which he placed on Holmes' thumb before telling him to hold it tight. While Sherlock did as he was told, Watson grabbed a second square of gauze and grabbed a disinfectant out of his bag. "I promise you," he started, staring Holmes straight in the eyes, "this will hurt." A slight glimmer of laughter was in his eyes. Perhaps he was anticipating his patient's cry.

As he did when he was first injured, Sherlock sucked air through his teeth in an attempt not to cry out in pain. "Shh, it's okay. It'll just hurt a bit, I promise," Watson said softly in an attempt to soothe his patient.

"You promise?" Watson had no way of knowing that Sherlock was referring to the pain he felt over Watson's impending move.

"I haven't a piece of candy to reward you with, I'm afraid, despite your childlike protests." Watson smirked. He wondered how Sherlock could get bludgeoned by boxers the way he was carrying on.

Holmes ran his free hand through his raven hair before grabbing Watson by his shirt sleeve. If only he had the courage. "Watson," But the other man's task was already completed.

"Don't thank me now, Holmes. Let's see how it feels come tomorrow, otherwise I might have to go fishing again." The doctour turned to collect his paraphernalia and repack his bag before standing. "Just try not to do anything too dangerous to yourself whilst I'm gone."

"I promise," Holmes replied, his eyes wide as saucers, his lips parted as he watched the other man walk out of the small room.

The two men enjoyed one another's company at lunch, however relations between them seemed almost forced. Watson appeared to make an attempt to sound extra cheery, and Holmes was being downright polite. A casual observer might not notice the difference, but someone familiar with the two men and their close relationship would be alerted almost immediately.

Mrs. Hudson brought up sandwiches of ham and roasted beef for lunch, eying both men cautiously, as if worried that another row would break out between the two of them, causing her number of plates to be diminished twice in one day. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson, we're fine," Watson assured her as he caught one of her glances.

"Are the two of you quite sure?" she asked.

"Quite sure, indeed," Watson replied, smiling at the older woman before she shuffled out of the room.

"And what fresh adventures do you have in store for us today, old cock?" Watson asked Holmes as he sipped his tea.

"Nothing too exciting, I'm afraid," Sherlock replied, tossing one hand loosely in the air.

"But surely, you must have something?"

"What are your plans then?" the detective inquired.

"I have some business to take care of, but then I am at your disposal tonight. I only hope, however, that tonight's escapades don't involve any more run-ins with trouble."

"I can arrange that." Holmes looked off into the distance for a moment before clapping his hands together. "I've got it! You shall dine with me tonight as my guest."

"Well yes, that was the overall plan, I thought."

"No, Watson! I shall cook for you the most savory ingredients I can procure between this afternoon and tonight, and I shall create a feast!" Holmes licked his lower lip excitedly, as he often did when having a bit of sudden inspiration.

"Alright, then," Watson chuckled, "I will anxiously await your culinary creations!"

Holmes waited impatiently until Watson left for the afternoon (presumably to proffer excuses to Mary), before he ran out the door and trotted to the nearby outdoor market. The great thing about living on an island empire was the various types of seafood that were in abundance. Holmes stopped by the table of an Italian immigrant he knew by the last name of Serra who always had a variety of pastas on hand. He purchased a half pound of fettuccine, two individual cloves of garlic and some scallions. Then he went by Durbin's Dairy to acquire a jar of whipping cream, a stick of fresh-churned butter, and wedges of asiago, romano, and parmesan cheese. Before heading home he stopped by the fishmonger's where he purchased a half pound of sea scallops and then Sherlock stopped into a gourmand specialty shoppe to pick up a bottle of chardonnay for Watson. It was aged in oak barrels for six years, and seemed as though it would match the scallops nicely.

The scallops were covered in ice and would last several hours in the wooden box used to package them. Holmes found room for the cream so that it wouldn't spoil, and after assembling a portable chopping block and a proper knife and pans from Mrs. Hudson, decided that it would most likely be in his best interest (at least for Watson's nose!) if he bathed. He dumped in a healthy handful of vanilla salts into the bath so as to lend a pleasant fragrance to him although he wouldn't be soaking for an hour. While the tub was filling Holmes shaved, carefully maneuvering the straight-blade razor around his mandible. After bathing and shaking free all the dead skin from is body, Holmes briskly ran a towel over his hair to wick away a majourity of its dampness before applying pomade to his hair, parting it, and allowing his moderately long locks to flare out at the sides of his neck. "Brilliant!" the detective exclaimed upon checking his appearance in the mirror. "Now, for clothes!" he answered himself, speaking to no one else.

Sherlock strode out of the bath with nothing on but a smile and hair pomade as he went over to his armoire to find a suitable outfit. He didn't know what time Watson would show, but he assumed they would dine at seven o' clock, per usual, with Watson arriving to Baker Street between six and six-thirty to change for dinner. Holmes found a freshly starched white dress shirt (courtesy of Mrs. Hudson) that he slipped on, and a pair of light gray slacks with dark blue pinstripes. He would look quite dapper tonight, so long as he rolled up his sleeves and found an apron to cook in, which was exactly what he did after dressing.

After borrowing what he needed from Mrs. Hudson, who complimented his appearance but still regarded him warily from the earlier events of the day, Holmes collected up the serving utensils and plates he would need, and found a new pair of taper candles wrapped in a brown sack in a drawer. In approximately a half hour's time the table was set so that dinner for two could be served with a plain elegance, set by the ambiance of candlelight.

Watson would be rapping at his chamber door within two hours, thus, it was time for Holmes to start cooking. He began by peeling the garlic and then mincing it finely until it was nearly a paste. He set it aside in a small, unused saucer before slicing the scallions. After he finished with the scallions, he realised that he ought to start boiling water for the pasta, however, he had forgotten to ask Mrs. Hudson for a pot. Running back downstairs muttering to himself he knocked on her door.

"Yes?"

"Nanny, it's me. Can I bother you once more?"

The door opened slightly and Mrs. Hudson peered out at him. "Whatever else could you need, Mr. Holmes?"

"A boiling pot, please. I'm making a pasta dish tonight."

"And haven't you any pots?" she inquired.

Holmes thought for a moment. There was that one, but he'd used that to boil a foul-smelling assortment of chemicals awhile back and never thought to clean it. Well, he had thought to clean it, but he never did anything but think about it. "Urm, it's indisposed of at the moment and has been for quite some time."

"Do I want to know the exact circumstances?"

Holmes smiled sheepishly. "Probably not, Nanny."

Hudson sighed as she turned around. "Be back in a moment."

Holmes' landlady returned with a large boiling pot in her hand. "Do take care of it," she implored.

"Indeed. In fact, do you enjoy scallops, Nanny?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. Why?"

"Because I shall provide you with dinner tonight. No need for you to cook. My magic fingers will whip up something delectable for your discerning pallet!" He took the pot from her, grabbed her hand and kissed it before hopping away and up the stairs to his own abode, leaving Mrs. Hudson to wonder what had gotten into him.

Finally with all the supplies he needed, Holmes put a large pan on his apartment's stove-top before realising that he needed to start a fire within it. Grabbing what remained in the fireplace (he would have Watson fetch more later), Holmes threw what fit into the stove, grabbed a match and worked at starting a fire within the metal beast. This unplanned for delay would most certainly cause his dinner to be served late, however, he would soldier on. While the stove was heating up, Holmes worked on grating the different cheeses so that he could later cook them together with the cream to make a rich white sauce. After he was finished with grating, Holmes checked the stove, finding that he had heated up quite nicely. He put on the pot for the noodles and grabbed a pan in which he started melting half his portion of butter. Once the butter had liquefied, he threw in the garlic, and then the scallions to saute them.

Holmes had been humming to himself as he worked on the meal, but decided to check the time. It was twenty after six, and given his habits, his guest should be arriving within a half hour's time. He opened the wine to let the bottle breathe, and grabbed the smallest of the pans to melt all of the remaining butter, using a whisk to mix in the first the cream, and then the grated cheeses. Opening up a seldom-used cupboard, Holmes found a variety of spices from various parts of the world. He grabbed the salt, pepper, a tin of Hungarian paprika, ground nutmeg and the cayenne pepper that Watson had brought him back from his trip to the French Guiana about a year back. Seasoning the sauce based off of what he supposed sounded good (instead of using an actual recipe), Holmes shook in various amounts of the various spices, tasting the sauce each time he added another measure.

The pot of water started to boil and Sherlock grabbed the parcel of pasta, breaking the sticks in half before tossing them into bubbling water and throwing in a pinch of salt.

Checking the time once more, Holmes grabbed the scallops, placing each one into the hot pan, pressing them into the bottom so that they would meld with the scallions and garlic. He stirred the creamy sauce before turning the scallops with surgical-like precision, using his fingers and a fork, before hearing a knock on the door.

"Who is it?" he sang out.

"Who do you think?" he heard the voice reply wryly from behind the door.

"C'est mon petit cocette, n'est-ce pas?" he asked, after he had crossed the room and opened the door, one hand holding his fork aloft.

"I am not your little whore, Holmes." Watson's mustache twitched, his eyes gleaming, obviously amused. He pushed past Holmes only to be assaulted by the savory fragrance of his dinner cooking. "Holmes, this smells amazing!"

"If you're lucky, yes," Holmes replied, smiling at him as he went back over to the stove. "We just have to make sure that we don't completely gorge ourselves because I promised Nanny some for the use of her equipment." Holmes emptied the sauce into the pan with the scallops before using a flat slotted spoon to fish out the pasta, mixing it amongst the scallops and the sauce.

"I thought that I would be late, but instead I'm almost ready. Let me just pour you some wine while this all melds together." Holmes handed Watson a glass of the chardonnay before grabbing a bottle of sherry, uncorking it and adding a healthy splash into the pasta.

"Holmes, I am impressed," Watson complimented, sitting down at the table with his wine.

Sherlock looked behind him, and winked. "I knew you would be. Although, I must admit, I thought you'd still have to get changed beforehand."

"Well, I didn't think to expect such a meal, so I just wore a jumper over my shirt. You, on the other hand, look marvelous. Quite the little house tart with your sleeves rolled up and wearing an apron. Very domestic."

"Don't get used to it," Holmes said while stirring the sauce and tasting it one last time.

"Well, I can't, now can I?"

Before sitting down to their meal Holmes insisted on rushing downstairs to give Mrs. Hudson a helping, surprising her even though he had told her he would bring dinner. Holmes also lit the candles insisting that they have ambiance with their meal.

"Being around you is ambiance enough," Watson smirked. "Especially with how you're dressed."

"What's wrong with the way I'm dressed?"

"Nothing, nothing!" Watson said over a mouthful of pasta. "Heavens, this is good, Holmes! Why didn't you start experimenting like this sooner? I swear, the scallops, it's like I'm having an orgas, um, heaven in my mouth."

Holmes smiled, thoroughly pleased at the compliment. Watson grabbed another forkful off his plate. "There's nothing wrong with how you look, old cock. In fact," Watson paused, regarding Holmes with his head cocked to one side, "in fact, you look rather... rather dashing."

"Vraiment?"

"It's true, Holmes. It's true. In fact, I bet you smell wonderful too, if my deduction that you had dipped into the bath before I arrived is an accurate one."

Holmes smiled. "It's true, my mother hen."

"Well then," Watson declared, taking a hearty sip of wine, "I shall enjoy smelling you." He rose from his chair and leapt to Sherlock, burying his nose into the other man's neck. Holmes turned redder than he had ever been in his life, perhaps.

Holmes tried to clear his throat, and failed. "Um, Watson, I do believe we ought to finish our meal."

The doctour had a hand around the base of Holmes' neck, caressing the nape of his neck. "Peut-être."

"No, not maybe, definitely!" Holmes pointed to the empty chair across from him. "Go, eat!"

"If you insist, although I must admit, vanilla smells particularly nice on you."

After the men finished their meal Holmes cleared the table. "Are you sure you don't need any help, Holmes?"

"Yes, indeed. I'm sure. You sit and enjoy the wine. Here," he tossed a cylinder towards Watson, who was making his way towards the couch, "have this too."

"Dinner, a drink, and a cigar? To what do I owe the immense honour and pleasure?"

"Let's just say that I'll miss my constant companion."

"Gladstone?"

"Hardly," Holmes smirked. "Now, make yourself comfortable and I shall play for you." Watson did as was suggested of him and flopped down on what often served as Holmes' bed, sloughing off his shoes as he crossed his stockinged feet.

Holmes grabbed his violin and bow after clearing the table of all the dishes, leaving only the wine bottle and candlesticks with their tapers remaining. "And what would you like to hear, dear Watson?"

"I do enjoy when you surprise me, so I'll implore you to do just that, just so long as you promise to play my song."

"Your song?"

"Yes, the one about Gladstone and me. I do quite enjoy it."

"Your wish is my command," Sherlock replied, grinning widely at Watson before he closed his eyes and began to play. He tuned his instrument by ear, warming up with a simple waltz before complying with Watson's request. He had played it scores of times since he performed it for Watson, and had memorized it so that he did not need the sheet music he had created.

"It's beautiful," Watson said upon Holmes' finish, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. He could just smell Holmes' vanilla musk from his lounging position and he inhaled deeply in an effort to let it completely surround his olfactouries. A soft moan escaped his throat.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing," Watson murmured dreamily.

"Surely, it's something. You look too content for it to be nothing."

Watson opened his eyes slightly, giving Holmes a sleepy, contented look. "It's just you. If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can just smell you from over here. You smell... good." He replied, putting extra emphasis on his last word.

Holmes felt blood begin to rush to his ears as he bit on his lower lip, trying to contain a smile. "Well, I did bathe today. After all, I am not a total savage."

"You should bathe more. It makes" me want to be around you more "you more pleasant company." He reached up with one hand to smooth his mustache. The sight of it made Sherlock catch his breath.

Both men were silent for a moment, staring into each other's eyes almost hypnotically.

"Perhaps we should retire to our armchairs. I could get you another glass of wine."

"What? Oh, yes, that sounds fine. Thank you, Sherlock."

Watson made his way towards his preferred armchair, and slunk back into the cushions. "Here, drink up. You're more fun when you're inebriated," Holmes said with a smile, pouring more chardonnay into Watson's glass before setting the bottle on the floor next to his companion.

"So are you, and yet, you resist. Why?"

"It's all part of my grand plan, mother hen. Or, perhaps I just thought I ought to give it all a break for awhile. Speaking of which, where's that cigar I gave you?"

"Oh, shit! I left it over on the table. Well, not on the table, mind you, but in a holder."

"Be still and I shall fetch it for you." Holmes had no sooner sat in his chair than he sprung out to grab Watson's smoke. "It's almost out." Holmes took a tattered box of matches out of his front pocket and lit one after putting the cigar in his lips.

"Sherlock, stop it! I'm fully capable of relighting my own cigar! Give it here!" Watson insisted, standing.

"If you say so." Holmes shook out the match before handing over the cigar. "But let me give you a light." He lit another match and stepped closer. "Here," he crooned softly, watching Watson as he held the tip of his cigar into the flame. Watson captured the flame and puffed on his cigar a few times to secure the fire before holding it aside. He took a single step towards Holmes, and breathed deeply. "My dear Watson." Holmes matched the other man's rhythmic breathing for a few moments before reaching a hand up to caress the doctour's face with his palm. "Dear Watson..."

"Holmes."

Sherlock stepped back and blinked rapidly. "My dear, where is your smoke?"

"What? Oh, it's-" Both men looked to Watson's side and saw the cigar laying on the ground. Watson had unwittingly dropped it. He bent down slowly while keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock. He groped blindly only to find the lit tip of his cigar with his fingers. "Ouch!"

"Watson, do pay attention! Here, let me help you up." Holmes leaned forward to give Watson his hand.

Watson grunted. "Thank you. I just – you distract me."

"Do I?" Holmes was breathing deeply, his lips parted, moisture glinting off his swollen bottom lip.

"I..."

"What?"

"I ought to sit down." Watson stepped away from Holmes, practically forcing himself into his chair.

"Watson."

The doctour stared into the fire, avoiding his companion's gaze.

"John," Sherlock implored.

He could see Watson's hand shaking as he held his cigar aloft. "What is it?" he asked, his eyes gleaming and taking on a watery glassiness that was obtained either from forcing himself to stare into the blazing fire or from forcing himself to hold back his emotions.

"John," Holmes repeated, crouching on one knee while resting one hand on Watson's armrest. "Look at me."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because, there's no reason to."

"But John, mon cher, you cannot tell me that you don't feel the charge in the air."

"There is no charge, you're drunk."

"I haven't been drinking."

"Well, I have," Watson replied, downing the rest of his chardonnay before reaching for the open bottle.

"You can honestly say that do not feel the charge between us?" Sherlock insisted, his voice firmer than before.

"I have no clue what you're talking about." He started to pour wine into his empty glass before holding it up to the light and deciding to drink it straight from the source.

Sherlock sighed and took his seat in his own chair, resigned to the frustration he felt coursing through his body. He could feel it nearly everywhere...

The two men decided to play cards until Watson excused himself. "I just can't stop yawning!"

"Don't worry, mon ami. Just go to sleep and I'll be here in the morning."

"Can, can I sleep with Gladstone tonight?" The man was obviously inebriated.

"You're asking me if I'll allow you to sleep on the floor?"

"Yes."

Repressing a bark, Holmes managed another "yes" without laughing. "Pick out your spot and I shall make sure that you and Gladstone are quite comfortable."

"But where will you sleep?" The drunk man was obviously concerned for his old friend's comfort.

"Most likely on the settee, Watson, now settle down."

Holmes gathered a pillow, coverlet, and quilt off of Watson's bed to make the other man more comfortable before grabbing his own coverlet and settling down for the night. He curled up after ensuring that Watson was fast asleep and drifted off, his nose drowning him in the smell of Watson's aftershave leftover from when he was lounging on the chesterfield. In his dreams, Watson had not ignored him, setting his sights on the fire instead.


	7. Saturday

Holmes awoke to the sound of Gladstone snoring, alone on the fur rug near the settee. "Watson, where are you?" he croaked with his first words of the morning. "Watson?"

Hearing a groan, he ambled over to his own bedroom. Finding the door was open, he popped his head inside to find Watson once again asleep on his bed. "John, what am I going to do without you?" he sighed before heading back out to clean up the night's previous excitement. Realising that the paper would have arrived by then, he went downstairs to grab the paper and ask Mrs. Hudson for some coffee, toast, and eggs. The protein and wheat would do Watson good after his night's escapades. Why did he seem determined to drink himself into an oblivion before tomorrow? If he were that guilty about his prior indiscretion, he would have told her about it by now. No, that wasn't Watson. He was dumb, but he was also intelligent enough to preserve his own state of affairs.

Returning to their flat, Sherlock arrived with Mrs. Hudson in tow. He opened the door for her to allow her entry. "Phew, it smells like a bachelor's disaster in here! Mr. Holmes, what have you been doing in here?"

"I assure you Nanny, any foul stench you smell did not occur from any of my doing, except perchance by the enablement of Doctour Watson."

Mrs. Hudson sniffed her disapproval loudly. "And where is he?"

"In my bed."

The landlady had been setting down condiments to accompany the coffee. "What?" she turned around so quickly that cream splashed onto their plates.

"I fell asleep on the couch, and somehow during the night he woke up and stumbled off the floor onto my bed. He often gets turned around when he wakes up in the early hours."

"Well, I suppose that won't be happening anymore after tonight," she replied before setting down the tray.

"Sherlock, what time is it?" Watson interjected, rubbing his head as he walked out of the other man's bedroom, squinting at the morning light.

"It's time you make yourself look presentable and get ready for your rehearsal this afternoon."

"Nanny? Nanny, wait, why are you here?"

"Mr. Holmes thought you could use breakfast, and looking upon you, I can follow his logic perfectly," Mrs. Hudson scolded.

Watson looked away. "Nanny, it's not what you think."

"So, you didn't smoke yourself into a thick fog last night?"

"Now Nanny, ease up on the old boy, he's due to be married in just over twenty-four hours." Sherlock put his arm around Mrs. Hudson's shoulders, giving her a winning smile. "Do we want him to get pre-wedding jitters?" Why yes, we do. A permanent case of the jitters, to be exact.

After Mrs. Hudson left, Watson turned to Holmes. "Thank you, my friend. You are too kind."

"I do what I can, or what I feel like." Watson smiled at his friend's honesty. "We don't really need to go out this afternoon though, do we?"

"Considering that I'm the groom and you're the best man, yes, Holmes, we do."

"We could go get drunk instead."

"You want to get drunk in the afternoon after abstaining for a week? Honestly Holmes, what are you thinking?"

"As you've proved several times this week, you don't really want to know."

Watson spent a majourity of the morning's remainder preparing for the afternoon's rehearsal. He shaved, bathed, brushed his teeth and mulled around what he could do to get rid of the bruise on his chin from their exploits earlier in the week. Unfortunately, he was going to be black and blue at his own wedding. While he was making himself seem presentable, Holmes seemed hell-bent on tossing the flat's contents on their ends. Hearing the commotion outside the bathroom door, Watson called out, "Holmes, what are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"Holmes?"

The other man stormed over to the bathroom door. "I said it's none of your business, seeing's as you won't be here come tomorrow."

The door opened. "Really?"

"You tell me. Either you're going to desert me here with the dog, or you're doing this whole charade to pull at my emotions."

"And here I thought you were the man without emotions," Watson quipped.

"Try me."

Instead of taking him up on his offer, Watson turned away from Holmes to finish trimming his mustache.

"She's going to try to sleep with you tonight, you realise."

"Why do you say that? You've no clue!" Watson called from the bathroom, avoiding their previous exchange.

"Because, it will be her way to entice you to go through with tomorrow."

"There's no enticing to be had, Holmes! Besides, she already told me she didn't want to jump in bed before the wedding. You'd find it ridiculous, of course, but she thinks it was bad luck and the reason why her previous fiance died."

"She slept with her previous beau? So you're not even marrying a virgin?" Holmes picked up his violin and started using his bow to create horrible-sounding chords (on purpose, mais oui) as he spoke. "Are you honestly that desperate to appear normal?"

Watson, having finished his trim, stormed out of the bathroom, rushing up to Holmes. "Will you stop?"

"With what?"

"With the pestering! Besides, I still don't understand what makes you so sure Mary will want to have... relations with me tonight."

The violin screeched. "Because you'll look extra manly tonight."

"What makes you say that?"

Because I'm staring at you and I can't stop. "Because you've taken so long to get prepared. Surely, your mustache is not that unruly, Watson."

"You'd be surprised," Watson smiled. He stepped out of the bathroom.

"Holmes, what the bloody hell have you done?" The place was a mess. He had indeed trashed it. Why? Why? Watson was afraid he knew, but too afraid to ask.

"'Wasn't me. 'Twas Gladstone." Holmes was very matter-of-fact in his answer.

Watson looked around to find the bulldog. He was comatose for only one reason. "It was not Gladstone! You've gone and drugged him again and there's no way he could be the creator of all this mess!" Watson stormed up to Holmes, his mustache twitching as he inhaled the foul air around him. "And you reek! How can you stand yourself?"

"I was attempting to make a new parfum," Holmes replied haughtily.

"Bullshit!"

"That's exactly what I'd thought of calling it," Holmes smirked.

"Poppycock! Now hurry up and get into the bath."

"No. I wouldn't want to make you late."

Watson stomped back into the bathroom to put the plug back in to stop the water from draining. He stomped back out, without a word, and grabbed Holmes by the ear, eliciting a screech from the other man. "Now listen to me, you're not going to do this to me. You're not going to act like the spoiled brat and give me a hard time, as always. Now come in here." Of course, Holmes had no choice but to follow in the direction his ear was heading. Both men ended up in the bathroom, with Watson blocking the door. "Off with the shirt, now!"

Holmes shook his head, his ear quite hurt and he was a bit confused by Watson's histrionics. "What?"

"Strip! Now! I'm sick of this, and I'm not going to arrive today with you smelling like the rear end of a horse." Holmes just stared at him, wide-eyed. "If you don't strip, I'll do it for you!" The man started towards him, dropping his cane as he ripped at Holmes' shirt, sending nearly half a dozen buttons flying into the air.

"Stop this, Watson! Stop this right now!" Holmes cried out, pushing himself as far against the wall and away from the other man as he could get.

"Strip!" The doctour leaned down to grab his cane. "If you don't –"

"Settled! Off it comes." Reluctantly, Holmes finished unbuttoning his shirt, keeping his eyes on Watson's to discern any sign of possible violence.

"Pants next."

"You're going to stand there and watch me undress entirely?" Holmes' eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Well, you are wearing drawers, I'd imagine."

"That's," not exactly true, "irrelevant!"

"I don't care."

"Moth-"

"Don't mother hen me, strip! You need to bathe, now!" There was an iciness in his voice that scared Holmes, a feeling that intensified when he brought his cane up.

"Watson, you're a doctour!" Holmes yelled. The man looked as if to make toward him. "For christ's sake, stop!"

Watson would occasionally drift off to a time when he was once again on horseback, commanding an inferior officer to kill an enemy soldier. Her Majesty didn't care much for prisoners of war if she didn't have to.

His jaw was set firm, nostrils flaring when Holmes realised that Watson didn't look right. "John. John, your pupils are dilated, are you feeling quite alright?" The doctour didn't answer. "John, are you... Are you on something?" Watson seemed to snap back to reality.

"What?"

"Are, are you on something?" Sherlock asked, studying the other man's eyes.

"Perhaps," Watson replied, his eyes avoiding Sherlock's.

"Watson! Damnsakes man! What is wrong with you?" It was Sherlock's turn to get angry as he rushed forward and grabbed Watson by the arms, shaking him. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

The other man shouted back. "It was just a little something from the cabinet to steady my nerves, so get off my case and get in the bloody tub! You smell like... Gladstone's contribution to the flowers out front!" Both men stared at one another, light gleaming in their eyes, before breaking out into laughter.

"Okay, okay, you win. Give me ten minutes in here and then I shall dress and we'll leave, if you insist."

"Yes, I do."

It was a good half hour before they were both dressed and in a carriage. It was some time after that before Holmes and Watson arrived at the Morstans' estate. Mary was very visibly flustered. "John sweetheart, I'm so happy you've finally arrived! I've been waiting for an hour, darling. Don't you remember that we agreed to meet here at two-thirty to get everything in order?"

Watson flipped open his pocket watch. "Oh, why, it's just after three-thirty."

"I'll say," a man interjected roughly. "You really shouldn't have left us waiting, son."

"Ah, you must be Colonel Morstan. Allow me to introduce myself, Sherlock Holmes." Holmes flashed a wide grin and extended his hand to the man.

"No son, it's Col- oh, you got it right. Very good. Very astute you are." Mary's father took Holmes' hand to shake it.

"And where is the matriarch of this family?" Watson had no clue what Sherlock was doing, but he was, at the very least, diffusing the arrival screw up situation.

"Hello Mister Holmes, I'm Matilda Morstan, Mary's mother." The kindly woman extended her hand, which Holmes kissed before returning it to her.

"That's a lot of 'm's, Mrs. Morstan." Holmes winked at her, managing to make the older woman blush, a feat that hadn't occurred in at least ten years.

"Don't let the Colonel bother you," she added, "the priest hasn't even arrived yet."

"Maybe he's gone and got himself some cold feet." Sherlock smiled at the older woman before flashing a grin to Mary, who cautiously regarded him. Their first meeting still weighed on her heavily, and she had hoped that John would distance himself from Holmes and his impertinent ways once they were married. Perhaps it would be best if she made him a father sooner rather than later...

"That's ridiculous!" Colonel Morstan exclaimed.

"Many things are," Sherlock smirked. "You all have no reason to fear though, I trained to be a minister."

"Holmes!" Watson barked, giving Sherlock a silent warning with his eyes. "Don't!"

"I'm doing nothing."

"You shouldn't joke like that. Mary's – " thinking better of his words a moment too late he corrected himself, "we're a proud and God-fearing family." He grabbed Mary's hand and held it tight at his side, looking at both of Mary's parents. Her mother was smiling and nodding, her father was glowering at Holmes.

"I never said I was joking."

"Why Sherlock, I had no clue!" Mary exclaimed happily.

"Neither did I," Watson added. "Why did you never mention it to me?"

"Because you never asked. You are also ignorant of the fact that I once traveled on an elephant. One more fact about me that you would have known, if only you had inquired."

"John, you should have asked him to preside over this!" Colonel Morstan interrupted, pointing a thick, meaty finger at Sherlock.

"Ah, see," Sherlock replied, holding up a finger to pause conversation, "you are assuming I completed my training, and that's simply not true. I mentioned that I had studied, I did not say that I completed my studies. After all, one's father is only afforded so much influence in one's life."

"Then why did you say you studied if you're not a bloody minister?"

"Colonel!" Mrs. Morstan exclaimed, fingers going to her lips in shock.

"I only told the truth, and a trivial bit of information about myself at that. Why dwell on the past and what could or might have been when there's the rest of your life to ponder?"

Watson saved everyone from any further verbal sparring by spotting the priest. "There he is! Father! Father Flannery! Over here!"

The old man shuffled over to them, smiling and squinting as if he wasn't quite sure he was in the right spot. "Hello there, hello there all. Oh, Colonel Morstan, why hello there."

"Father, it's good to see you. And you do recall why you're here today with us and our daughter, and her fiance, Dr. Watson?"

"A wedding," the priest replied, his words sounding more like a question than a statement.

"That's right," the Colonel added. "Our Mary is getting married tomorrow, at three o' clock, after church, and then we'll have the reception."

"Ah yes. Lovely."

"We thought it might be nice for you to walk us through a practise wedding ceremony, Father," Watson prompted.

"Yes, indeed!" The old man's eyes seemed to focus on the world around him. "Let's go, then!"

Father Flannery instructed Mary, Watson, and the Morstans as to what would happen for the ceremony, including the vows and exchanging of rings, followed by the newly married couple's first kiss. Holmes discreetly slipped behind a bush, where he sat, legs unfolded before him, listening in irritation.

"Holmes!" Watson called out midway through the walk-through, "Holmes, this is your part with the ring."

Holmes grumbled to himself as he stood up and walked around from behind a lilac bush. "Here."

Watson opened the black box with red velvet lining. "Holmes! What's this, it's nothing but an empty box!"

"Well, you don't expect me to carry around such a sacred, valuable thing in my pocket as if it were a mere shilling, do you?" Holmes looked at Mary with a look of innocence. "Besides," he whispered, cupping his hand to Watson's ear, "I was afraid you might try to gamble it away for some magic beans." Watson shot him the sort of look that could, in an alternate universe, kill a man. The Colonel not only heard enough of Sherlock's whispered remark to raise his eyebrows, but he caught the look his soon-to-be son-in-law shot the detective.

"Well then, we'll just pretend, won't me?" the father offered.

"I thought that was the idea of all these charades from the start," Sherlock remarked, frowning as he stepped back from Watson to stand behind him. He turned to go hide behind the bushes again, but he could feel two pairs of eyes bearing into the back of his head – Watson's and the Colonel's.

After the Morstans confirmed with Father Flannery again what time he should arrive for the ceremony the small group started to disband. Mrs. Morstan embraced Watson, and then Mary, before she and the Colonel walked the father back out to his carriage, which had stood by waiting. Mary suggested that she and Watson take a bit of a walk.

"Just the two of us?" he asked nervously, looking back over his shoulder to the lilac bush behind which Holmes sulked.

"That's what I was thinking," she purred, running a finger up his lapel.

"What, what about Sherlock?"

"Holmes is fine where he is, I'm sure." Mary paused a moment before leaning in, "Besides, there's something I wish to speak to you in private about."

Watson smiled, fearing that Holmes was right after all. He waited until they were awhile away and into a flower-lined pathway until she released Watson's hand from the grasp of her dainty white-gloved hand. "Doctour, I've been thinking!" Mary sang.

"Oh," Watson kept his eyes trained to a tree in the distance.

"I've been thinking that twenty-four hours isn't really all that long."

"No, it isn't. We'll be married soon now."

"Exactly, so, perhaps we could speed things up a bit." Mary smiled up at Watson.

"Do you want me to stop the priest? You know I can't run very fast, but I could holler up to Holmes. He runs like a mink, he's fast and rather sleek when he wants to be. In fact, when we were running after Lord Black –"

"John! Shush now, my darling. Enough talk of Sherlock and his talents." Mary took a shallow breath to regain her confidence before continuing, "I'd rather talk about your... talents."

Watson's lips pushed together. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you mean," he replied tersely.

Mary let one of her gloved hands reach up to cup Watson's cheek. "I think you do." She turned herself to face him as two fingers on her other hand walked themselves up Watson's collar until her arm was around his neck. "John," she breathed heavily, "I think it's time."

"You want to know the time?" he faked, reaching to find his pocket watch.

"No John, I want to know you!" Mary kissed him, her lips wrapping around his mustache. John returned her kiss, but he let his eyes stay open, trying to ascertain if they were being watched. His heart felt heavy, as if it would beat out of his chest if only it had the energy. Why was he so nervous?

"Mary, darling, I, I really think we should wait. It's only a few more hours, many of which will be spent sleeping so we won't even be thinking of it."

"But I dreamt of you last night, John." Mary's eyes were shining with excitement. "It was... very nice. And, I thought, since it's been so long for either of us since we've... well, I know you've had other partners, but I figure we should put our pasts behind us and start our future together." Mary's fiance looked away, trying not to appear as guilty as he felt just then, glad that Sherlock wasn't around to remind him of his... indiscretion.

"And that's what tomorrow is all about, starting our future together," Watson replied after pulling himself back together, stepping back slightly from Mary.

"I just thought... you're here, I'm here, we look so nice and maybe you wouldn't have to go back to Baker Street tonight."

"Ooh, no, I'm sorry darling, that just won't work." Watson grabbed her hand and started to lead her back down the path from whence they came.

"But, why not?" Mary looked hurt, her face set in an unfortunate frown.

"There's no way I can't not stay at Baker Street tonight." He stepped up his pace upon seeing Holmes emerge from the bushes and Colonel Morstan begin to approach him.

"But John, I just don't see what the big fuss is. We'll be husband and wife soon enough."

"Darling, it's not you, it's me. Perhaps I've lent a bit more credence to your fear of superstition than I'd like to admit, however, either way, my tuxedo and all my grooming accessories, along with my bag for our get away are all at Baker Street."

"Can't you just ask Sherlock to bring them tomorrow morning?" Mary implored.

"No, not at all. I mean, it just wouldn't be fair, now would it?" Watson did start to run as fast as his cane would allow.

"John, wait up!" Mary cried, trailing behind him.

"We mustn't let your father talk to him for very long. It will not end well," Watson warned.

"It's as I said before," Sherlock began, apparently answering a question posed to him by Colonel Morstan.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, no, don't bother. You mustn't! We," he quickly put himself between the two men, "Colonel Sir, we regretfully must be going. I must shine my shoes and do all manner of last minute preparations for which I need my dear friend's assistance, so we shall bid you adieu." He turned and grabbed Holmes by his jacket collar before practically dragging him away from Mary's father. "Mary, Colonel and Mrs. Morstan, it was lovely to see you all, and we shall be here for the big event tomorrow. Make sure you all get plenty of rest, and ensure that Mary eats a decent breakfast, please Mrs. Morstan."

"He's a doctour, you know," Holmes called back to them. "Good bye!"

Watson had arranged for their carriage to come back within the hour, thankfully, and the horse was just approaching as they reached the edge of the Morstans' property. "Holmes, you shall be the death of me!"

"Not if old man Morstan kills you first," the detective replied, smirking at Watson as they entered the carriage.

"You two did not hit it off," Watson remarked, undoing the stud to his collar so that he could get some breathing room.

"And he's not very fond of you either."

"Sure he is. He's never had a problem with me before!"

"Is that so? Then it is me after all; he doesn't like the two of us together."

"Holmes,"

"He thinks I'm a bad influence on you."

"Well," Watson smirked, "you are!"

"I keep you away from women."

"Including Mary!"

"I keep you away from gambling... sometimes."

Watson looked at Holmes, his face full of amusement. "Sometimes, when you're not having me bet on you taking the mickey out of some bloke three times your size."

"Oh, come on! You enjoy it as much as I do!"

"I likely enjoy it more, as it's not my ribs that get bruised by the end of the night."

"True, but you do have to look after me," Sherlock pointed out.

"I don't have to, you know. I do it because I want to. I do it because I am your friend. Also, I'm a doctour!"

"And who will I have to tend to my needs when you're gone?" Sherlock asked, his pupils shrinking into tight black orbs.

"I'll still be around, just not as often." Watson placed a hand on Sherlock's knee. Why did he insist on doing so? Surely, he knew how it made the other man feel!

Holmes looked away and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes to get a glimmer of what his irrational imagination could provide. The electricity! Dammit, Watson! If he were a more ambitious man he would return the touch before pinning the other man to the wall of the carriage as he found Watson's lips with his own. Instead, he would look out the window. Once again, his moment of braveness from the night before having left him.

"We haven't planned for dinner," Watson remarked as they entered 221 Baker Street.

"You hadn't, but I left a note with Mrs. Hudson to inform her that we would require dinner for two tonight." Holmes opened the door to their second floor quarters, "If... that would be satisfatoury to you." He shot Watson a piquant look, still aroused from the brief touch during their carriage over.

"Yes, that sounds quite satisfactoury." Watson approached a nearby bookshelf and started picking through the books to find which he owned. "I can't believe I am not packed yet." His voice was distant, airy.

"There's no need," Holmes replied.

Watson shot a sharp glance towards Holmes. "Yes there is. What if a patient comes in with a rarely-seen condition for which I have the solution in my books, yet I cannot treat him because the crucial information is over here?"

Holmes muttered to himself as he acted busy, looking through the various test tubes and bottles that were strewn on a table near his desk.

"What was that, old boy?"

Old boy! "I said 'don't go'. Don't pretend you didn't hear me, lest I start to believe that your hearing is failing you as your shoulder and common sense have."

"Holmes!"

The detective snatched up a beaker containing a pale yellow liquid and made as if to smash it against the opposite wall. "Damn you, Watson! Damn you! Why?"

"Why can't I be allowed to be happy? Why can't I get into a normal way of living?"

"You've always been happy here. You said as much yourself when we were locked up after the shipyard incident, before she posted your bail and you left me there to rot, if not for the crazy Masonic brotherhood."

"I wouldn't have left you there for long."

"Not for long! I could have been filet mignon to those criminals!"

"You love criminals! In fact, you have told me often enough in the past that you cannot find a proper criminal amongst most of your usual cases."

"That's different!" Holmes spat back.

"And that answer is convenient!"

"Criminals which challenge my mind and common fool cat burglars are two different breeds entirely."

"You have all sorts of classes of friends, Holmes. You nearly married a bonafide scam artist, yet you were worried sick over a few hours in the pen?"

"I didn't have you to protect me," Holmes admitted sheepishly.

"With your prowess in boxing, karate, and sword-play, I never really had a doubt in your efficacy in maintaining yourself, old cock." That's better!

"But surely, mother hen, without you I would have met my much-chagrined maker long ago."

Watson's face softened as he regarded his companion. "Perhaps you are dependent after all," he said with a crooked smile.

As predicted, Nanny brought up dinner for the two gentlemen around seven o'clock. As it was his final night in Baker Street, Watson asked if she might join them in the home-cooked feast she'd prepared. Both men were mildly surprised when she accepted, as she'd never taken the opportunity to do so before. "And why don't you gentlemen come down here to join me?" Mrs. Hudson asked when Watson went to invite her. "Between you and me, you two have never kept too cleanly of a room, and I can only suspect it will deteriorate once Mr. Holmes is left to his own ways." Watson smiled in assent before returning back upstairs to inform his dining companion.

"Today just keeps becoming more bizarre!" Watson shouted as he burst through their entryway. He looked around to find Sherlock, slumped near the unlit fireplace, his violin in his lap as he hummed seemingly random chords. He was staring blankly at the floor. Although he had warned Watson that he was occasionally taken by moods such as these, it still unnerved the doctour from time to time. "Sherlock?" he asked softly, hoping to attract the other man's attention.

When the seated detective didn't answer, Watson repeated himself. "Sherlock, old cock?" He was answered by a slight grunt that could perhaps been intended solely for its creator, in its effort to confirm that a particular chord was meant to be played on the instrument in Holmes' lap. Watson ambled over to his companion, leaning down to get face to face with the other man. "Sherlock?" he repeated, a bit more forcefully.

The black head of hair jerked up to it's addressor. Hopelessly infinite dark orbs pierced the air between them, and it seemed to Watson as if they had pierced through his very soul. Holmes was not breathing, merely staring intensely. Watson hadn't even noticed Holmes' hand drop his instrument before reaching up to graze his face with the palm of his hand. Instead of sliding off, the hand stayed on Watson's face, Holmes' thumb reaching out slightly to brush against the doctour's mustache. Watson instinctively closed his eyes before realising that it was not his lovely Mary caressing him, but his constant companion of well over a decade in years instead.

"Sherlock, you really must stop with all this," Watson said softly, turning his mustache slightly towards Holmes' outstretched thumb. He sniffed loudly, similar to the restraint shown by an older woman or even a gentleman who is at his child's funeral, trying dearly to keep his or her emotions hidden inside his or her eyes. Watson's lower lip disappeared under his mustache as he popped it into his mouth in an effort to restrain himself. Holmes cocked his head to the side as he regarded Watson. "Are you feeling quite alright?"

Sherlock replied wordlessly, nodding his head, a serene smile spreading from his lips to his eyes.

"Nanny has invited us downstairs to her quarters for dinner tonight. I... just thought you might like to know."

Sherlock nodded again, his hand still resting on Watson's face. He stirred, giving the impression that he was edging towards Watson, whose discomfort had begun to blossom into full-blown panic. Just as Watson was about to fall back on the floor behind him Holmes stood up, grabbing up his violin with the same hand he held his bow in, before reaching down to assist Watson from his crouched position. "I suppose you'll want to bathe before we head downstairs."

"I suppose you're right," Watson smiled, the immediate threat of Sherlock's closeness having subsided.

"And to think, you turned down your fading violet to spend the night with me and a woman old enough to be your dear mother. Why, mother hen, if I didn't know better, I'd think that you were-"

"Were you following us?" Watson interrupted, his voice sharp.

"Of course not, three is a crowd, always. I told you before we ever arrived that she was going to proposition you, and by the look on your face as you came back from your little stroll, well, it was rather obvious."

"I beg you, please do not say anything tomorrow. My nerves will be taxed enough as it is."

"Your wish is my command."

"Well then, can I ask whether you've prepared a speech for tomorrow?"

"I've considered several words," Sherlock replied, haughtily.

"Don't be so aloof, Holmes. I've told you dozens of times over these many years that it does not become you."

And marriage doesn't become you either. "You go sponge yourself down while I figure out what I'm going to wear."

"As if you'll ponder that hard over something so trivial!" Watson joked before heading into the bathroom. You've no clue, mon cher.

Holmes did take a full four minutes figuring out what he was going to wear to take dinner with Nanny, mostly because of the haphazard way he kept his clothes. While Watson was in the bathroom, Sherlock found a small empty packet in one of his desk's drawers and filled it with several of the wax-lined sleeping pills he had prepared the other day. Mary would get an envelope of money (which, perhaps, she would use for when things inevitably failed) and Sherlock would give Watson enough sleeping pills to drug him each night during his honeymoon. It was the least he could do. After all, he was Watson's best man, for better or worse!

Watson took yet another bath, indulging in the vanilla scented salts that Mrs. Hudson had given them as a gift, wishing that Sherlock took the opportunity to relax in a warm bath more often. (Truth be told, he enjoyed having those sacred moments of serenity to himself while giving his injured shoulder a chance to relax in the water.) In many ways, Holmes really was like a five year old child. Watson had to argue with him to take bathes, cajole him into changing into fresh clothes, deter him from causing trouble with Mary. It was indeed draining, particularly more on some days than others. If pressed, the doctour would admit to being more than a little apprehensive as to what Holmes was planning for tomorrow's toasting speech. If pressed, the doctour would also admit to being much more than a little apprehensive about his first night alone with his wife. If only Holmes could accompany them to the country. Perhaps he should have taken Holmes up on that offer to use Mycroft's country estate...

Watson's train of thought was interrupted by the wail of Holmes' violin in the next room. He wondered how often Holmes would play it after he was by himself, with only Gladstone for an audience. Perhaps he'd invite Nanny in for a concert, though Watson very much doubted it. If he listened closely, he could practically pick out the tune Holmes was playing. In fact, it sounded quite like– no, it was definitely the song Holmes had penned and performed for him just a few nights ago. It quite amazed Watson how a melody could be so simple, yet so complex at once, how familiar yet exciting, how... just like Holmes it was. The one man he knew better than any other was often the one man who puzzled him the most. Watson wondered if he were as paradoxical to Holmes as Holmes was to him. Of course, he could never ask him, because the other man would likely smirk, and give Watson a facetious reply.

Watson grabbed his towel and used it to wipe the excess water off his body before styling his hair, trimming his mustache and wrapping the towel around his mid-section so that he could walk out and find some clothes for that night's dinner. His bare foot hit the wood floor of their shared quarters and the violin screeched at his presence. "Holmes, are you quite alright?" Watson asked.

"You're naked."

"Well yes, under the towel I am, but I intend to rectify that rather quickly." Watson grinned. "And what about you, I thought you were going to figure out what you were going to wear."

"Indeed, I have."

"And?"

"I am clothed, am I not?"

Watson sighed. "Honestly Holmes, do you really think I'd let you take dinner with Nanny wearing that?"

"What's wrong with it, I wore it earlier today."

"Which is exactly why you should change. Honestly Holmes, I wonder whether you were brought up in the stone ages the way you act regarding your hygiene."

"Wearing an outfit for anything less than a day is purely a waste, and I don't see why I have to bend my principles to fit within your definition of what's socially acceptable!"

Watson pointed his cane first towards Holmes, then towards the detective's bedchamber. "Are you going to insist I pick something out for you?"

"No! I've already found a shirt myself, if you're going to insist I change."

"Holmes, you're a man, we've been out and about, you've been crouching grumpily behind a lilac bush, sweating and getting ripe."

Holmes' eyebrows knitted together as he grabbed the collar of his shirt and lifted it towards his nose. "I am not ripe!"

"Don't make me come over there and smell you."

"You're not dressed."

"Yes Holmes, I know, we've already established that."

The detective's eyes grew wide as he was contemplating his next move. Should he approach and put his plan in to motion sooner than expected, or should he – Holmes turned to head into his room and change his clothes. Within a few minutes he returned wearing a different shirt and trousers. "Is this better?"

"Do I need to smell you?"

"I don't know, do you?" Holmes returned, a lopsided smile illuminating his face.

Watson looked away. "Let us sit in comraderie for awhile. We'd be impolite to go down this early. Instead, you could run over your speech with me."

"No no no!" Sherlock waved a finger as he spoke, "But perhaps I should go through and see if I might find a nice bottle of sherry to bring to Nanny as a thank you for tonight. After all, hosting two men such as ourselves on such short notice at her advantaged age is most definitely to be commended."

"Not to mention that it's rather a polite thing to do," Watson smirked.

"Indeed. And yet you claim I am devoid of manners and cleanliness."

"Surely Holmes, especially when you are prone to indulging your darker habits, you must admit that you are prone to not bathe. And furthermore, it's not as if Nanny is an invalid! She gets along just fine."

"She has you to look after her, or, at least, she used to." Holmes replied.

"I shall be around at least once monthly, in which I can exam the both of you. Perhaps I shall have you strip to the skin so that I can just examine you both one after another."

"You couldn't handle me!" Sherlock laughed.

"I've commanded men, been shot in the arm and the leg, and am about to embark on the bumpy road of marriage. Who says I couldn't handle you?"

"Well then, Nanny certainly couldn't handle my manliness." Sherlock looked aloof, but upon meeting Watson's eye both men broke out laughing.

"Sherlock Holmes, you may be the death of me yet!"

"You can only hope!" the detective smiled, standing on a chair to reach into a high cupboard to retrieve a dusty bottle of libations.

The gentlemen arrived at Mrs. Hudson's door promptly at seven o' clock. Spirits were high enough that they walked the stairs together, Sherlock grabbing hold of Watson's arm as if he were a maiden. "Very classy, Holmes!"

"Toujours, mon ami! Toujours!" Holmes laughed in reply. He knocked rapidly on Mrs. Hudson's door with one hand, holding the decanter of sherry in the other.

Mrs. Hudson welcomed them in, thanking Sherlock for the gift. "I suppose you'll expect me to make you some this next year in return!"

"Well, I certainly wouldn't say no," Holmes smiled, looking most charming.

"Do make yourselves at home, gentlemen. I hope you came with an appetite tonight, though I wouldn't be surprised if our Doctour here had a weak constitution tonight."

Watson smiled politely. "I will endeavour to allay my fears in favour of the delicious smells enveloping this room, I assure you."

"Oh, Dr. Watson, you will make a wonderful husband. You always know just what to say to soothe one's fears or make one blush."

"He makes me blush nightly," Holmes smirked.

"Holmes," Watson warned, his voice losing its overt politeness. The detective flashed a smile in return, concentrating to cross his eyes in a show of goodwill and zaniness. Mrs. Hudson caught his look and started to chuckle.

"Sometimes, even now, you two remind me of when you first arrived here. You were both so young then, but both properly men. I must admit, there will be an air of hollowness when you leave, Doctour. So, you must be sure to visit often!"

"I promise!" Watson inclined his head towards her.

"Now, who's hungry?"

Mrs. Hudson had prepared a roasted chicken with potatoes, carrots, and plenty of gravy. "And I even made you some dumplings, Doctour Watson, as I know how much you enjoy them."

"You are far too kind. At this rate, I won't be able to fit into my pants tomorrow!"

"We could always postpone it for a year or two," Sherlock commented.

"No."

"We could put you in a dress, perhaps."

"Mr. Holmes! Don't be so silly!" Mrs. Hudson laughed.

"Would you rather I wore the dress, Nanny?" Holmes asked between forkfuls of potatoes. Mrs. Hudson laughed even harder and Sherlock giggled with her. "What do you think, Watson?"

"I think that if this is how you are now, we'd better keep you away from the sherry after dinner," he responded dryly.

"Oh, Doctour, Mr. Holmes is only joking, surely!" Mrs. Hudson protested between giggles.

"Surely!" parroted Holmes, cocking his head as he bit his lip and locked yes with his companion.

After they finished eating, Mrs. Hudson cleared their plates and Sherlock offered to pour her and Dr. Watson each a snifter of sherry. "Why, Mr. Holmes, won't you be joining us?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Holmes shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Nanny. I have made it my goal, nay - my quest - to be sober as a Mormon this week so that I could attend to our Doctour Watson here and see that he is well cared for and arrives to his nuptials in a timely manner."

"That's why we were late for the rehearsal, eh Holmes?" Watson smirked.

"How is that my fault?"

"Do you really want me to answer that? Is this really the time or the place to talk of such things?" Watson countered.

Mrs. Hudson watched the exchange between the men. After the incident a few mornings ago, things just seemed tense between the two lodgers, and she could only surmise that perhaps Sherlock was feeling a bit put out that Watson was getting married and he was being left behind. Even she would admit that she sometimes rued her dear, departed Charles in that he passed away and didn't have to lead the solitary existence she was now experiencing for the rest of her days. In fact, it was Charles' death that made it so that Molly Hudson had to take in lodgers at all. While she owned the building, she couldn't quite afford to live in the big house all herself, and while she was sure that she could have found quieter lodgers, both Holmes and Watson had grown on her over time. Of course, it didn't take much for the doctour to grow on her, what with his manners and his polite, orderly military ways.

"Here it is, Nanny! Enjoy the best that my cupboard has to offer." Sherlock's speech broke Molly Hudson out of her revere.

"Oh, why yes, yes Mr. Holmes, I most definitely will. It was very generous of you to bring it along!" Holmes handed a glass to his landlord before pouring one for his companion. He refilled his goblet of water with the pitcher on the table before Mrs. Hudson proposed a toast.

"And what should you wish to toast to, Nanny?" Watson asked.

"Why, to you, of course! To Dr. John Watson and his bride, Mary. May they lead a lovely long life together!" Mrs. Hudson reached over to clink the glasses of the fellows sitting near her before taking a sip of her own libation. "My, Mr. Holmes. That is quite good!" the older woman's face gathered colour as she spoke, giving her normally pale cheeks a bright splash of rosy colour.

"It is good, Sherlock," Watson commented, taking another taste.

"Would you like me to top you off?" Holmes offered.

Watson considered it for just a moment. Of course, he would have to wake up early tomorrow in preparation of his nuptials later in the day, however, a tad bit more shouldn't hurt. "Sure, but only if our lovely guest will join me."

"Fill 'er up, Mister Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson instructed, smiling and holding out her glass.

It was after eleven o' clock when Holmes & Watson left Mrs. Hudson's to retire to their own flat for the night. Yet again, Watson had become quite inebriated, and required Holmes' assistance in getting up the stairs without falling. The shorter man supported the doctour with his arm around him, counting the stairs as they ascended the second floor of 221 Baker Street. "Now, stay here until I can get the door open," Holmes instructed, pulling a keyring out of his pocket.

"You locked the door, mon ami? Pourquoi?" Watson asked.

"Because I don't want anyone coming in and stealing any of my ideas or inventions, obviously."

"They'd have to be able to figure out what was brilliant and what was just an idea."

"What about Gladstone?"

"They'd have to lift him with all the drugs you give him."

"What about my violin?" Holmes asked, turning the lock and opening the door of their flat.

"That would be rather bad, wouldn't it? You'd have nothing to wail on with!"

Holmes gave Watson a petulant look. "I do not wail on it," he replied.

"Sure you do. You wail on it when you're in a mood, I hear you in the middle of the night when you think I'm sound asleep. It's rather sad, and if you were a less logical, more reasonable man, I would confront you to comfort you about such, but alas, you are cold, methodical, and quite logical."

"And yet you claim that my so-called wailing is 'sad'. Curious indeed, John."

"You are a very curious individual in both aspects, old cock. Now, help me to bed so that I might get there without falling over." Holmes grabbed him from under the shoulders once more as he directed him towards Watson's room.

"No, I like yours better."

"You want to sleep in my bed, again?"

"Yes please. Also, I should wish to have some water, to help stave off the headache that might otherwise come in the morning."

"You have many wishes indeed, mother hen."

"Indeed!" the drunk man parroted, his reply coming amongst hiccups.

"You're quite the man, John Hamish Watson." Holmes ended up taking them to his room after all, setting Watson onto his bed and working at undoing the laces of Watson's shoes so that he would be more comfortable during the night.

"Water?" Watson asked, groggily.

"Your wish is my command." Holmes turned to go and fetch the pitcher of water and a fresh glass. Despite being a military man, Watson would occasionally shock Holmes with a sense of almost complete dependency on the detective. Of course, while he might not admit it, Holmes never minded. In fact, he quite liked it. He had re-entered his bedroom to find Watson standing up, without pants. In fact, just about the only bits of clothing he still retained were his socks. Holmes coughed out of surprise, nearly dropping the glass of water. "Watson, what the bloody hell?"

The doctour turned his head to look behind him, at Sherlock. "Oh, bonjour. I just thought it might be more comfortable to have the coolness of the sheets against my... me." Holmes couldn't help but notice how tanned the doctour was from behind. Almost as if he tanned in the buff...

"It's best if you get into bed now," Holmes replied stiffly, trying to avoid looking at the man who would be sleeping in his bed tonight, naked and alone.

The doctour did as was suggested, before eying the water. "You remembered!"

Holmes smirked. He couldn't help being amused when Watson was inebriated like this. "Yes, my dear Watson, I have. You see, you asked me a mere three minutes ago."

"And yet I'm naked!"

Holmes coughed, stifling a chuckle as he handed Watson his water. "Not quite. You're still with stockinged feet."

"Oh." Watson had a puzzled look on his face. "Well, that's alright, isn't it? You don't mind?"

"Do as you please. I don't recall that I've ever stopped you before and I'm certainly not going to start now." His words carried a double meaning, but Watson was too far gone to realise it. He watched as the other man took a drink of water before setting the glass down on the nearby table and grabbing the coverlet to pull over his shoulder as he rolled onto his side.

"Merci, mon ami," Watson murmured, closing his eyes.

"Bon soir, mon ami." Sherlock turned and left his room once more, closing the door behind him. A sigh escaped the detective's lips as he stared at the fire. Should he go forward with the plan that had hatched itself in his head, or should he stay his tongue and allow Watson a day of uninterrupted bliss? Gladstone let out a long groan, as if echoing Holmes' discontent. "Indeed," he sniffed at the dog, before assaying the room to identify his possible lodgings for the night. "I'll bet on the settee tonight, if only because I know once he leaves we'll be destined to sleep on the floor together, passed out in a drug-induced haze." Holmes unbuttoned his shirt before deciding to grab a quilt off Watson's bed. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply to fall asleep to the other man's scent as he patted his hip to call Gladstone over, who laid down faithfully next to him from the floor. Holmes let himself breathe deeply, thoughts swirling around in his head as he slipped a hand down from his temporary bed to scratch Gladstone behind the ears. His hand remained on the dog for several hours, bringing some small degree of comfort to them both.


	8. Sunday

This was to be the day that Dr. John Watson was to wed Miss Mary Morstan. It was to be a joyous occasion, the mark of a new beginning for some things, and of bittersweet endings to others. There were hopes that this day would be full of the sun's magnificent rays, although clouds threatened to cry out against the day's event, showering its participants in merciless rain. However, at the moment, Sherlock was enveloped in the warm folds of a vague dream. He was warm, embraced, and Watson's face shown through the shadows. The doctour was whispering his name through the white fog that enveloped him. "Sherlock, Sherlock..." His name came from John's lips as if murmured by a lover. All Holmes was, all he had, all he would ever be he would throw away to keep himself in this moment. To live his whole life in this one moment, with the only other person in the earth he actually cared for... and then Watson was atop him, straddling him –

– yelling!

"Sherlock! Wake up! Damn you!" Watson cried, shaking his sleeping companion off the armchair's pillow. "Wake up! Bloody hell, man!"

Holmes' eyes snapped open, rudely awakened from what was promising to be the best dream of his entire life. "What could possibly be so important that you find yourself atop me so early in the morning?" he asked with more than a hint of irritation in his voice.

The doctour was so frantic that he had tears straining to free themselves from the corners of their eyes. "We're late, damn it! We're late! The cab is here and we were supposed to be ready by now. I'm not dressed. Hell, I'm not even shaved! I literally woke up by the driver knocking on the door!"

Holmes held his breath for a moment while he thought. "No worries. What time is it now?"

"Approximately twelve-thirty."

"We'll tell the cab to come back in an hour, which should give you plenty of time to get ready. While you shave I'll get together some tea and toast so that you've got something on your stomach, and while you're eating I'll get ready. We'll be ready to go in no time."

Watson furrowed his brow as he did the math in his head. "That sounds like it might work."

"Good, now get off me and I'll go and take care of the carriage while you get started washing up." In times of stress, between the two men, Holmes was the dominant one. While Watson's temper often got the best of him, Holmes was able to calculate what violence and effort was necessary to subdue his adversary, whereas Watson was often in danger of being a man bloody without Holmes' intervention.

After Watson rose from the settee he headed off to the washroom, stripping off the old nightshirt he'd thrown on after hearing the frantic rapping on their lodging door. True to his word, by the time Watson had given himself a hasty sponge bath and trimmed his mustache, Holmes had the butter melted on the toast. "Very efficient," the doctour remarked, smiling before taking a bite. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"Never let it be said that I haven't done everything I ever could for you," Holmes replied with a touch of melancholy in his voice. "Give me a quarter of an hour and I'll be out."

Watson went about the shared flat gathering what he needed to remember, most importantly, the rings. After finding his good cravat, Watson took a few minutes to pay attention to Gladstone. "I really will miss you, ol' chap. However, I'll be sure to visit, unless, of course, you'd prefer to live with me?" He looked at the dog who in turn looked longingly towards the closed bathroom door. "Well then, you've clearly chosen, so I shall let you carry on here," he smiled and scratched the Gladstone behind his ears, making the bulldog groan.

Shortly afterwards, Holmes emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist until he could make his way to his room. "I shall just be a few moments."

"Merci, mon ami."

True to his word, Holmes emerged from his bedroom dressed to attend Watson's wedding. Even Watson couldn't deny that he looked every bit the gentleman, and every bit (handsome and fetching, to say the least) stunning. Holmes had his good white shirt underneath a black waist coat patterned with squares of cerulean blue flowers, a dark violet cravat, a charcoal frock with blue fleur-de-lis frog enclosures beginning below the lapels, and striped pants- a navy blue base with a light blue pinstripe. "Do you have what you require?" Holmes asked, distinctly avoiding any mention of wedding rings and the like.

"Yes, I do. Thank you, old cock."

Holmes stepped forward, his hands slightly shaking as they came up to adjust Watson's cravat. "John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" The taller man looked down at the detective, both men seemingly holding their breaths.

Holmes paused for a moment before reaching a hand into his own jacket pocket and withdrawing a small envelope. "These are for you. Consider them your wed... your gift from me." He turned away to glance at the room one last time while they both still inhabited it.

"What's this? Is it, Holmes, is it what I think it is?"

"If you think they're sleeping pills, then you're right." He looked over his shoulder and grinned. "I figured in case you didn't feel like performing you could always take an easy way out. Mind you, I tailored it for your exact weight and height, so I wouldn't go taking any more than one unless you want to be out for longer than eight hours."

"Holmes!"

"Yes?"

Watson paused and looked out the window. "I think our cab is approaching."

The wedding was to take place at the Morstans' grand country home. It was part country cottage retreat and part mansion, with extensive gardens and a ballroom which featured a wall made of windows to let in natural sun and moonlight. Its distance from London proper was such that it took the two men quite some time until they were finally at their destination. (Watson had hoped that Mary wouldn't chastise him for being late again. She had expressly told him that a photographer would be at her parents' at three o' clock so that they could get wet plates taken. While doing such was quite expensive, Colonel Morstan didn't think anything too costly for his little girl.)

Watson had tried desperately and in vain to strike up conversation with Holmes on the ride over. After all, sitting in silence for over an hour was trying to anyone. Every time Watson attempted to talk to Holmes, however, the other man would merely grunt and stare more intently out of the carriage window. If only he didn't have to be so moody, and needy, and self-absorbed! Watson sighed and crossed his legs, hoping that they would arrive at their destination soon.

When they arrived, Watson heard Mary exclaim upon seeing him. "Oh John, there you are! I was beginning to worry that you'd be late!" She threw her arms around him.

"Well, I wouldn't have made it here so expeditiously if not for Sherlock, so you should be thanking him."

Mary turned to look at the third wheel next to them. "Thank you, Sherlock. You are truly too good to me."

"I believe they say that it's bad luck for a groom to see his bride in her gown before the ceremony," he replied quietly.

"There's no way to avoid that! In fact, we need the both of you for pictures now!"

"I really don't think I'm a necessary character in this scenario."

"But Sherlock, you're John's best man! You're essential!"

Watson smiled at the detective. "C'est vrai, mon ami. (It's true, my friend.) You are indeed essential." He received a withering look. "Say, Mary darling, perhaps you could give us a moment to catch our breath before we get thrust into the limelight. Give us just a few moments, if that's alright?"

"Certainly. I'll see you soon, John. I'll see both of you soon!" Mary smiled at the two men before going off to regroup with her parents, who were currently getting their wet plate images struck.

"Sherlock," Watson began, looking at the other man imploringly. Holmes gave a deep sigh, letting his head sink to his chest as he closed his eyes. "You know that I normally do everything I can to indulge you, but please, just for today, let it go the other way round in our brotherhood." He let a hand slip beneath Holmes' chin to pull his face up so that the two men were looking eye to eye. "Pour moi, s'il vous plait?" he asked softly. Holmes reacted with a smile, his conflicting emotions showing in his eyes.

"Allons-y!" ("Let's go!") Holmes replied, "However, I insist that you let me compensate you for a plate of just the two of us. Just for... posterity's sake."

As the men approached the photographer, Colonel & Mrs. Morstan were getting their last wet plate taken. "Oh Mother, that will be just wonderful!" Mary exclaimed, her cheeks flush with excitement. "John! Dearest, I believe it should be our turn next!"

"Actually, I had thought that perhaps I'd –"

"I think that's a grand idea," Colonel Morstan interrupted.

"Sir, please sir, you must stand still otherwise the image just won't be clear," Mr. Graysmith, the photographer, reminded the Colonel, for at least the third time.

"Sorry," Watson offered under his breath, looking at Holmes.

"Ce n'est pas un problème," the other man replied quietly.

"That French I hear, eh?" Colonel Morstan once again interjected. "Why the bloody hell you speaking French then?"

"Parce que je sais francais et je l'aime, et Watson fait aussi, d'accord?" ("Because I know french and I love it, and Watson does too, okay?")

The Colonel stared Holmes down. "If not for their short conqueror I'd say that the French are very weak-spirited on the battlefield."

"It is indeed a good thing that I enjoy the French for their culture, their wine, and their fantastique **cheeses**. J'adore les fromages." The two men stared stubbornly at one another until Watson touched Holmes' arm.

"C'est tout pour maintenant, Sherlock. D'accord?" he spoke quietly. ("That's all for now, Sherlock. Okay?")

Holmes nodded. "Oui. C'est tout pour vous, mon ami." ("Yes. It's all for you, my friend.")

"Merci," Watson smiled, before walking over to Mary.

Holmes decided that stepping away from the current center of activity was probably for the best, between his recent exchange of "pleasantries" with Colonel Morstan and his desire not to witness Mary and Watson getting their images struck together. I suppose I ought to start calling her by her name now to avoid problems in the future. After all, without him living with me, Watson will have no reason to visit if I'm unpleasant to him in any way.

Holmes found a bench to sit on while Watson was getting his pictures taken with his soon-to-be bride. Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head back while he let any number of thoughts come over him. He wondered if there was any use putting the plan that kept popping up in his thoughts into motion. Perhaps; however, it would be difficult to engineer the proper moment...

"Sherlock, come on over, it's our turn now!" Watson shouted out jovially. Holmes had tuned Mary and her parents out, even as she was asking why John insisted on speaking French to Holmes. He explained to her that in an effort to help him get leads, it not only helped Holmes to know other languages, but to have someone with whom to practise them. "Sherlock!"

"Here I come, mother hen." Holmes left his thoughts and the concrete bench behind him before heading over to the Morstans, Watson, and the photographer.

The photographer's assistant, Timothy, had found a chair in the Morstans' old barn which, for the past ten or so years, had been used as storage for many of the Mary's parents' older furniture that they used before moving to this prime realty. After dusting it off with a wet cloth Timothy had made the chair practically shine. It was, at the very least, going to look nice enough to use in the wedding pictures, and had indeed been used in nearly every shot thus far. Watson had asked the photographer if the pair could also take a standing photograph.

"No problem, s'long as you're paying for it," the older gentleman smiled.

Holmes and Watson stood side by side, a hands-length apart, turned inward towards one another. "Shall we smile?" Watson asked.

"I don't feel much like smiling, however, if that is what you wish, I will," Sherlock responded complacently.

"No," Watson shook his head, "don't worry."

"Please gentleman, you must remain still," the photographer reminded, taking the photo after the men had settled. After taking the standing shot, the photographer suggested that Watson sit in the chair, its red upholstery with golden fleur-dis-lis accenting the seating.

"Will you be able to pick up the details?" Watson asked.

"It will be obvious that you are sitting on a chair with a wooden frame, however, I don't think you will be able to discern that the pattern of the chair matches your friends' frogs, if that's what you were wondering."

Watson smiled. "Do I have ink on my face?"

Holmes smirked, feeling the blood rush to his face to be the object of such attention.

"What I would like is for your gentleman friend to stand behind you. That's right, now, put your hand on his shoulder, and you, Mr. Watson, reach up with your hand to touch his."

"Dr. Watson," Holmes corrected.

"Excuse me?"

"It's Dr. Watson. He was a doctour with Her Majesty's Army."

"Oh, my apologies, sir!"

"It's nothing." Watson waved his free hand while the other was laid atop Sherlock's on his shoulder.

"This is a very popular pose with today's soldiers, and Miss Morstan did tell me that Mist, Doctour Watson was in the Army. I just didn't know his profession," the photographer explained.

"I'm not a soldier," Holmes commented.

"What?"

"I'm not a soldier."

"Well, this pose isn't reserved solely for soldiers, it's more about showing the brotherly bond between the two men in the picture," the photographer explained.

"Well then, shoot away," Holmes smiled before straightening up and looking straight at the camera, a gleam of boldness in his eye as he and Watson were immortalized into a wet plate that would later grace his desk back on Baker Street.

After the photograph was taken, Watson stood up and shook Sherlock's hand. "Merci, mon ami." Holmes made to hug him, but thinking better of it met his manly, friendly gesture. "I think you might have made a good soldier after all though, given a different life."

"I don't think so. I most likely think too much to be an effective soldier."

Colonel Morstan walked over to the two men before snorting. "Bah! I can't imagine you a soldier at all! One punch to the gullet and you'd be done!"

"Actually, Colonel, I have personally witnessed Holmes take quite the beating and give such back, quite successfully too!"

"Hrmph! There are some men who can take quite the beating on the battlefield, but then become total junkies after they get home."

Watson avoided the Colonel's eyes. "Well then, you'd be impressed to know that Holmes has been completely sober this week. In fact, the hardest thing I've seen him put into his body is tea."

"Is that so?"

"Yes sir, Colonel," Holmes replied, his voice having an edge of sarcasm lacing his words.

"Then what sort of pre-wedding celebration have you given my son-in-law? Surely he deserved a bit of fun and the chance to be wild before being tied down." Morstan lowered his voice as he eyed Mary and her mother standing together off in the distance.

"I assure you, Colonel, Holmes made sure I enjoyed myself."

The Colonel's head cocked such that he looked as if he'd just had a spasm. "What I mean," Watson continued, "is that I had a bit of cards, a bit of booze, and a grand time, but not too grand."

Watson's father-in-law snorted. "That's good to hear then."

Mary, having noticed that the photographer was packing up his camera so that he could concentrate on developing the wet plates, walked over and gave her father a hug. "Daddy, you're not giving my dear John a hard time, are you?"

"No," all three men said at once.

"Daddy, you're not harassing Mr. Holmes, are you?"

The old man was quiet. "Daddy, look at this ring!" Mary flashed Adler's stolen diamond at her father, who was undeniably impressed. "Only a true man of good spirit would give us such a thoughtful, unique gift!"

"It looks expensive," the Colonel replied, eying the ring before looking at Sherlock.

"You might say that it is worthy of royalty, thus I felt it befitting to be placed upon your daughter's finger." Sherlock smiled at the Colonel, knowing that the other man would not catch his true meaning – that she could use every bit of coinage she could get once Watson got back into his gambling habit. (Besides, it would be fitting for the diamond he took from the object of his failed attempt at a "normal" relationship be given to Watson's failed attempt at a "normal" relationship.)

Mrs. Morstan had joined the little crowd. "Well, I think it's the most beautiful ring I've ever seen and I think John is very lucky to have a friend like Mr. Holmes who is fond enough to offer such a thing to our daughter."

"In all honesty, I may have felt a tiny bit at fault for Watson losing the first ring he had purchased for Mary," Holmes replied shyly.

"What did it look like?" Mrs. Morstan asked.

"It had a single diamond in the middle, and it was surrounded by little rubies. It was quite dainty, and I thought it would look rather lovely on Mary's hand," John explained.

"Don't dwell upon it, John. What matters is our love." Mary's parents gazed lovingly upon their daughter, Watson greeted Mary's adoring gaze with a kind smile, but Holmes was visibly shaken. His nostrils flared, his eyes had become wide and red, and his lips turned downward into a grimace as his footing started to crumble.

"Holmes, Holmes, are you alright?" Watson asked, grabbing his companion by the elbow to steady him.

"I'm... fine. Perhaps I'm a bit affected by the sun. I think I should like to go have a sit down and perhaps some water."

"But, the sun has gone behind the clouds," Mrs. Morstan commented.

Watson grabbed onto Holmes' arm more firmly as he started to walk with him to the house. "A bit of air, out of the elements, will put him right in just a few moments. He'll be right as rain by the time the guests come."

After he and Sherlock made it into the Morstans' house, Watson seated his companion into the nearest chair. "Are you quite alright?"

"Who's asking, my doctour or my friend?"

"Can't it be both? Would the answer differ?"

"Yes," Sherlock huffed, "it would. To my doctour I would remark that I am quite fine. To the man that has shared my quarters, my boxing winnings ,and my wine for the past several years, if I were to chance it, I would say –"

"How is he?" Mary had followed them into the house, honestly concerned as to her beau's friend's well-being.

"I think he'll be just fine." Watson smiled at her. She truly was a good person. "If you could just give us a few moments to discuss wedding things before the guests start arriving?"

"Yes, yes, my dear. I'll go see that the flowers are here. And come to think of it, where is my sister? Jane was supposed to arrive an hour ago."

"I think your mom may have mentioned her," Watson lied to get Mary back outside quicker.

"Holmes," he began, ignoring his companion's interrupted train of thought from just moments ago, "here, take the rings. Also, I wanted to ask you whether you'd prepared anything for a speech."

Holmes tucked the small velvet box containing both Watson's ring and Mary's ring into his jacket pocket. "I have, and as I told you before, it is up here," he reiterated, pointing to his head.

"Please, don't mention my gambling, or drinking, or..."

"Your womanizing ways. Never fear, mon ami, your secrets and dirty ways are safe avec moi, toujours." (with me, always)

Watson sighed in relief. "Merci." He smiled before reaching down for Sherlock's hand to lift him out of the chair. "Shall we get ready?"

"You go, it's your... wedding."

"But, you will come out before it starts, won't you?"

"Mais oui."

Watson left, leaving Sherlock in peace. Upon confirming that his companion would not turn back for him, Holmes closed his eyes, letting his head drop into his hands. Why did he have to be conflicted? Logic was always the right choice, yet he could be ruining the life of the one person in this world he actually cared for – or, he could be saving him from a life of mundane nothingness. If only Watson could accept that he didn't need to jump through society's hoops...

After cursing himself, Mary, her father, both her parents together for giving life to her, and the idea of God that everyone seemed so keen on in the country's latest religious fervor, Holmes stood up and started outside. He couldn't hide inside forever, after all.

Heading out to the recently-constructed wooden stage upon which Watson & Mary would be bound, Holmes saw Mary conversing animatedly with someone who was quite obviously her sister. He was about to step over to the lilac bush of which he'd become well-acquainted when Mary rushed over to him. "Sherlock, how are you? Are you better?"

"I am standing like my old self again, thank you."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it. And, in fact, I would like to introduce you to my sister."

"Jane Morstan, I presume," Holmes spoke, taking the strawberry brunette's hand and bringing it to his lips like the true gentleman he could sometimes be. "I am Mr. Holmes, John's friend."

"Sherlock Holmes," Mary expanded.

"The Sherlock Holmes? Oh my goodness! You're akin to a celebrity in the paper. The cops are always talking about how you've been around on their cases."

"Yes," Holmes sniffed dryly, "indeed."

"According to John, the police wouldn't solve half their cases if not for Mr. Holmes!" Mary exclaimed.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Holmes replied, smiling as he held onto Jane Morstan's hand. "They wouldn't solve one quarter of their cases if not for me." Both women giggled at Holmes' proclamation before excusing themselves to go greet Father Flannery, who had just arrived, apparently late per usual.

Watson stood near Holmes, waiting to be told by Father Flannery that they were ready to commence with the main event. Mary had gone off with Colonel Morstan so that she could make her grand entrance, pouting upon hearing that there would not be time for she and Jane to get a few wet plates struck before the wedding. "There'll be time afterwards darling, I'm sure," Mrs. Morstan had consoled her.

Guests had begun arriving and getting seated, all watchful at the increasingly gray sky above them. Of course, that was the gamble couples took in having outdoor weddings. Watson had mumbled to Holmes under his breath that they would be fine so long as vows were exchanged before the rain started to fall. Holmes, having fallen silent once more, just grunted.

After the guests had been seated, a hired violinist began playing Sheep May Safely Graze, during which Mary and her father walked down the aisle. Watson stood at attention with his arms together in front of him, looking at Mary approaching, thinking that Holmes could play better three sheets to the wind than the man the Morstans had hired through their church. He looked behind him to glance at Holmes, who seemed to stare at the bruise that still remained on Watson's jaw from their fight at the bar earlier in the week. Perhaps I should be looking at Mary instead of Holmes. Watson turned to face Father Flannery and his bride who was now standing opposite of him. Colonel Morstan reached forward to shake his hand before heading towards his seat. It felt like the bottom of the world had dropped out, and he had nowhere to go. No one to hold on to. He couldn't cling to Mary, her nerves must be just as shaken. And then Watson heard Holmes sniff behind him. The quick snort of smugness warmed Watson's heart. Sherlock was dependable. He might be impetuous at times, but Watson could always know what to expect – even if it was to expect a surprise.

Father Flannery cleared his throat before stepping forward and holding up his hands to get everyone's attention. "We are here today, to join with great matrimony the marriage of Miss Mary Morstan and Mister John Watson, the doctour." The aged priest, although he should know the words to his introduction backwards in his sleep by now, could only be counted on to recite the names right, which was more than some priests, at least! Without warning aside from the gray clouds overhead, the sky cried out in a thunderous clap. Several of the guests jumped in their seats. "We are here today, and so will the rain be, so let's get started!" Father Flannery exclaimed before smiling at the seated crowd and heading back to the bride and groom.

"Are you both ready?" the priest asked softly.

"Yes," Mary replied.

When Flannery looked at Watson, the doctour became self-aware of the eyes staring on him and smiled slightly, his mouth having gone unexpectedly dry.

Father Flannery took care to speak loudly over the thunder and clouds that were interfering with Miss Mary Morstan's most special day. "Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, we are gathered here today, this day that Our Father has made, to join in matrimony Miss Mary Morstan and Mister –", Flannery paused to correct himself, "Doctour John Watson on this glorious day, so that we may join their two souls and two lives into one."

"'Ere, 'ere!" Colonel Morstan spoke out, interrupting the minister.

Father Flannery looked at Colonel Morstan, wondering why the bride's father was being vocal. He cleared his throat. "As I was saying, we are gathered here today to combine the love of Miss Mary Morstan with Doctour John Watson. Now, under the watchful eyes of Our Loving Father, and under the loving eyes of your friends and family, let me bind your love forever.

"Mary, will you have this man to be your wedded husband, to live together in the holy estate of matrimony as God has ordained it? Will you submit to him as the Church submits to Christ? Will you love, honor, and obey him? Will you keep him in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others remain united to him and him alone, as long as you both shall live? If so, then say, 'I do.'"

"I do," Mary replied, grabbing Watson's hand and squeezing it as she beamed at him.

"And now," Flannery stopped as he looked overhead, seeing black clouds moving in. "My, it certainly looks like it shall-" And it rained. And it thundered. And lightning was in the air, causing an air of panic amongst the guests as Colonel and Misses Morstan herded everyone into the house. Jane grabbed Mary and, taking her father's jacket, held it over her sister's head in an effort to maintain the carefully designed hairdo her bride sister had received earlier. Father Flannery seemed confused, looking around for cover closer than that of the house, as he was rather aged and unable to move quickly.

"Over there!" Holmes yelled to Watson as he tried to hustle the older man to the nearby barn.

Watson grabbed the priest's other arm, but could not lift him. "Holmes! Can you carry him?"

"I can walk," Father Flannery protested before a bolt of lightning drowned out his voice.

Sherlock cracked his neck to the left and right before kneeling on one leg before the priest. "Excuse me, Father," he started before heaving the old man over his shoulder and trotting along with Watson to get to the barn. After getting within reach of the barn, Holmes set Father Flannery down, who jogged off into the main door of the barn and, incredulously, slid the door shut, locking it.

"Father Flannery! Let us in!" Watson called out.

"It's raining outside," the old man answered back.

"Listen up you old man, I am not going to get killed out here! Open up!" Watson shouted angrily.

"Watson, over here!" Holmes exclaimed, spying a side door that appeared to enter into the barn proper.

The doctour trotted over to the detective as Holmes yanked open the door, shoving Watson inside before closing them inside from the elements. Both men were silent for a few moments as they caught their breath and observed their surroundings. It was very cramped – apparently the barn had a shed built into it, and after the rudimentary rakes and shovels, there was barely enough room for both men to stand straight next to one another.

After regaining his bearings, it was Holmes that spoke first. "Watson?" he asked tremulously.

"Yes Holmes."

Holmes shook from his nerves, and although there might never be a more opportune moment, he debated with himself whether he should be vocal about his feelings. How do you tell someone you've lived with for over a decade, who you've loved for almost a decade, that you loved him? He was at the edge of the plateau and he jumped. "I love you."

"I care for you, too," Watson replied, apparently a bit more preoccupied with the rain that was beating on the roof over their heads.

"No, not like that. Like this," Holmes replied. Acting in a way that was quite out of character for him, he leaned up impulsively, grabbed the other man by the lapels and pressed his lips against Watson's, eliciting a small groan of surprise from him. He felt electricity, but was certain that Watson would not return his enthusiasm in kind. However, instead of shying away, Holmes felt Watson press their lips closer, parting his own so that Holmes could gain access. Again, Watson moaned.

Holmes broke their embrace to look at Watson before trying once more to convince the other man to stay with him. "You don't have to do this, you can stay with me. We can live together, I'll... I'll take care of you."

Holmes was acting most unlike himself. "Sherlock..." Watson's determined face started to melt – starting at his eyebrows and ending at his lips. "I... do care about you."

"It's not about caring. It's about love."

"You love me?" Watson regarded Sherlock's face. His eyes wide and gleaming, his brow furrowed in worry. "This isn't just about trying to keep me from marrying. You honestly... Sherlock, I had no clue." It was a lie – there were times (especially during the last few months) when he wondered, but he never let those thoughts materialize beyond asking "what if".

" _ **Well now, my dear Watson, you've finally got a firm grasp of the obvious**_ ," Sherlock said before reaching his hand behind Watson's head and bending it to his, letting their lips touch once again. Watson had let his body melt into Sherlock's as he wrapped his arms around the other man. He had closed his eyes to let the rest of the world melt away when the wooden door to their closet burst open, flooding the small area with drab daylight.

Sherlock spun around to see Colonel Morstan blocking the only way in and out of the crowded closet. "And just what's going on here?" the old man demanded.

"I was just straightening Watson's cravat after we were forced to crowd in here to escape the rain. He'd felt faint and I had to prop him up. It seemed as though this lead straight into the barn, but alas, we got thrown against one another in this small tool shed." Holmes flashed a winning smile, the type of smile which Colonel Morstan learned long ago meant trouble.

"You need to get back to your bride," Morstan commanded gruffly, directing himself entirely at Watson.

As the three men walked back to the ceremony, Holmes fell back to slid up next to Mary's father. "Don't worry, I was just giving him a pep talk about what he should do to your daughter tonight once they're behind closed doors." Sherlock whispered into the older man's ear, delighting in causing Colonel Morstan's face to redden further. Planting a seed of anger in the other man's mind, Holmes skipped ahead to catch up to Watson. Perhaps he had a chance yet...

The rain having disappeared almost as abruptly as it arrived, Father Flannery started in post haste to finish up the remainder of Mary and John's wedding vows. (Mary had coyly asked if she could give her vows first, as a symbol of her love for John, thus John was left to begin the ceremony again.) Father Flannery asked Watson if he would nourish and cherish Mary as Christ loved his Church, and if he would give himself up for her. He asked Watson if he would love her, keep her in both illness and in health, and forsake all others once united with her. Dr. John Hamish Watson swallowed to hide the dry lump he felt swelling up in his throat. Holmes stood near a bush, several feet behind both Mary and her sister, his eyes focused upon Watson. Don't do it. You don't have to – I will take care of you. I want to take care of you.

Flannery called Watson's name. Finally, unable to ignore the Priest's insistence any longer, Watson gazed at Holmes once more before answering. "Yes," he croaked. "I do."

"Then take your rings of gold and place them upon one another to symbolize your love, love that has no beginning and no end, as symbolized in the rings themselves."

Watson looked to Holmes, his best man, once again, before realizing that he had obviously slipped the rings into the doctour's frock pocket before Colonel Morstan barged in on them. Watson's shaking fingers fished the small golden rings out of his pocket as he slipped the smaller of the two over Mary Morstan – no, Mary Watson's ring finger of her left hand. Stealing one more glance at Holmes before he let his head slip to his chin, Watson held out the remaining ring so that Mary could place it on his finger.

"And now, by the power vested in me," Father Flannery announced, "I present to you Doctour and Misses John Watson. Doctour Watson, you may now kiss your bride." The crowd started to applaud as Watson leaned down and gingerly kissed Mary on the lips. She had closed her eyes and was obviously hoping for something more intimate, but her new husband's stomach had started to feel as though crickets inhabited it. It was not pleasant.

Amid all the clapping of the delighted guests Holmes trotted briskly into the Morstans' home and proceeded upstairs, to where he knew there was a bathroom that was likely to be unoccupied. A few turns and he found himself in his desired location, quickly locking the door behind him. Holmes reached into his frock coat and pulled out a tanned leather wallet. He unfolded it and withdrew needle and his favourite seven percent solution. He had gone far too long (a whole week!) without any chemicals inside him. His hand gave an involuntary shudder as he plunged a needle in and withdrew his sweet, sweet liquid from a small glass bottle. In his anxiousness to get the cocaine into his body, Holmes had neglected to remove his frock and expose his pale white arm. He shoved the needle between his lips while he worked at throwing off his jacket and pulling back the sleeve for his right arm. (He always used his right arm because, being right-handed, the muscles in such were stronger and tended to disperse the drug faster.) With the precision of a surgeon Holmes inserted the tip of the needle into his arm and pressed the plunger, watching the barrel's content emptying into his arm. After he had reached the end, he slipped the needle out of his arm and laid his head back against the pedestal of the sink. A groan escaped his lips, as his body's reaction to the drug was that much more pronounced after abstaining for the past week. His arm and then the rest of his body felt warm, numb, sleepy. He needed the numbness to help him get through this, however long his own personal hell might last.

He wasn't sure if he'd been in there for five minutes or five hours when he heard a knock at the door. "Is anybody in there?"

"Yes!" he croaked out.

"Is everything okay?"

Of course it isn't, you fool! The only person I've ever really wanted has thrown himself into an abyss! You idiot! "I'm fine, just give me a few moments to wash my hands and I'll be right out." He folded up his leather pouch and placed it back in his frock before unrolling his shirtsleeve, replacing his cuff links before grabbing the jacket, slinging it over his left arm and walking out, his pupils dilated. 

Sherlock hadn't taken three steps down the stairs when he ran into Watson. "Holmes, where were you? I've been looking all over for you! You're the best man, you've got to give a speech, or had you forgotten in an effort to ruin my day?"

"My dear Watson, old boy, do you really think I could forget you? Ever? Honestly now, I mean –"

"You're high! I can't believe it! You are, aren't you? Is that what you were doing in there? Shooting up? You are –"

"John Dear! John, did you find Sherlock? Is he coming?"

"You should tell her that I'm already spent!" Holmes sighed into Watson's ear before Mary approached, smiling as he ignored Watson's angry, whispered outrage. It's as if he'd forgotten everything that had happened between them amid the rain and excitement of just an hour ago.

"He's right here!" John snapped, roughly grabbing Holmes by his sleeve and marching him down the stairs. "He's right here in all his... glory." His yelling had attracted the attention of the guests around them.

"Is, is everything okay?" Mary's brow furrowed as she looked up at her obviously distraught husband who was nearly dragging his closest companion down the stairs.

"Watson was just a bit bitter at the thought of me chatting up your lovely sister, Mary Dearest." His voice had a slight slur to it, but Mary was too elated at having just married to notice.

"Really now John, you do tease Sherlock too much!" She smiled as she put her hand on Watson's free arm as the three of them walked into the grand dining room. And that is how Dr. and Mrs. Watson entered their reception as husband and wife – with Holmes latched onto Watson's side.

Without warning, Holmes raised his free hand and addressed the seated crowd. "Madames and Monsieurs, meine Herren und meine Madame, please allow me to present the Doctour and Misses John Watson! Let us all give a round of applause. Huzzah!" Holmes let go of Watson's arm to stand back and clap jovially, looking at Watson with a smile that was present on his lips only. "I hope you got what you wanted," he whispered, leaning in. His smile turned into something ugly and bitter, as if he were grimacing instead.

Watson smiled, closing his eyes to keep his emotions in check. "Thank you, everyone. Thank you. Please, take your seats now."

As the wedding party and guests were seated servers brought out plates of pheasant with squash and beans, leeks sauteed in garlic, and bread. Glasses were filled with Syrah, and smaller flutes were filled with champagne for the wedding toast. "I look forward to your speech, Sherlock," Mary said, leaning slightly into Watson's space after they were all seated.

"Indeed," Watson sniffed dryly, giving Holmes a stern look.

"I promise to be as eloquent as always, and I vow not to disappoint. Ah," Sherlock exclaimed, letting his fingertips bring his glass of wine to his lips, "What a lovely choice to pair with the pheasant. My compliments to your parents, Mary." Within moments his glass was empty, save one sip to be enjoyed with his actual meal – providing he could stomach eating, whilst sitting next to Watson and her.

Colonel Morstan stood up and directed that everyone should eat while their plates were still warm. Mary ate daintily, while Watson squared his jaw, chewing silently while glancing over at Holmes every few moments. When Mary was talking to her sister, Watson took the chance to address Holmes. "Really? You're going to keep... doing what you've been doing on an empty stomach?" he hissed.

Holmes poked at a few green beans with his fork. "Oddly enough, I've no appetite. You apparently have no problem devouring your fowl."

Watson instinctively swallowed the lump that was developing in his throat. "And why shouldn't I?" His voice was barely a whisper. Holmes looked away. "Dammit Holmes! Damn... you!"

Holmes looked at him for a moment before grabbing his fork and knife and stabbing into his portion of pheasant before hastily shoving a piece into his mouth. "Old cock," Watson implored.

"I am not your old cock." Holmes replied, staring ahead resolutely, continuing to shovel food towards his mouth, chewing mechanically.

Watson started to reply but was tapped on the arm by his bride. He redirected his attention to someone less needy and more pleasant as he started joking with Mary and her sister. Holmes felt as though he might vomit onto his own dinner.

After about 20 minutes of silence between the two men, Colonel Morstan stood up yet again, this time clinking his used fork against his champagne flute to get everyone's attention. "Attention, attention everyone, attention. There now. As you all know, this is the time where a toast is given. Traditionally, it is given by the best man and is normally something that's prepared beforehand, although I would be more than delighted to toast to my daughter and new son-in-law."

Holmes shot up out of his seat. "Unfortunately Colonel, I have a promise to keep. You may take your seat. Now." He smiled as he spoke but his eyes glistened icily at Mary's father.

"Oh, well then, carry on." Morstan sheepishly took his chair, yet kept his glass in the air.

Holmes cleared his throat, closing his eyes briefly before placing a hand on Watson's shoulder and glancing down at him. He made eye contact with Mary only briefly; her trusting, smiling face shaming him into keeping her out of his immediate vision. "Let us join Colonel Morstan in raising our glasses to Doctour and Misses Watson. To John, you have been my friend, closest confidant, partner, and doctour so long that I never thought you'd leave, yet here you are doing just that. And to Mary, whose beauty cannot be seen any better than by that of my John. Mary, you could have snagged any man in London, nay, the world, yet you chose my John instead. So, without further ado, let me convey the warmest regards I can muster to John and Mary – here's hoping you both find happiness and exactly what you deserve!" Holmes smiled broadly and looked at John, as everyone clapped and raised their glassses, shouting "cheers" to the bride and groom. Sherlock brought his champagne flute to his lips as looked around first at all the smiling faces, ignoring Mary's face and landing on John's. His seated companion grasped his elbow.

"Thank you Holmes. That was very eloquent."

"Cheers." Holmes watched Watson finish his glass, although he did not let the liquid get anywhere near his own lips. After Watson turned his attention back to Mary, Holmes sat down, setting his glass on the table without drinking a drop. Perhaps he could sneak off into a quiet room somewhere...

Before Sherlock had a chance to finish his thought, Colonel Morstan was up on his feet once more, addressing the room. Cake was served, during which Holmes sat alone while John and Mary cut their cake, with Mary's sister watching with glee. A server approached him to give him a piece of the dessert. "Keep moving," he said gruffly.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"I told you to keep moving. I don't want any cake!" Sherlock snapped at the waiter.

"S, Sorry sir." The waiter scurried away, looking for someone else who would be more willing to enjoy the dessert.

Holmes' eyes darted quickly around the room to check if anyone were looking his way. After finding himself satisfactorily ignored, he grabbed his water goblet and withdrew a hip flask. Into the ice water he poured a generous portion of absinthe. Watson would surely notice his disappearance if he tried to make himself scarce so early in the evening. After all, the dancing had not yet begun. He discreetly drank his absinthe and was just finishing it when Watson approached the table, Mary's arm around his. "Holmes?"

Sherlock smirked slightly, as even a man of Watson's rudimentary deduction skills could figure out what was truly in his glass. Mary, being both the fairer sex and much more naïve than either of the men currently in her presence, suspected nothing. "I believe we'll be dancing soon, Mr. Holmes!"

"Indeed. Try to avoid Watson's right foot. In fact, avoid his whole leg. It gets rather stiff when it's been raining."

"Oh, I had no clue."

"Indeed." Holmes sniffed.

"Holmes," Watson warned softly, but sternly.

"I suspect there's much about your new spouse that I've known for quite some time, and vice versa, I'm sure. For instance, Mary, did you know that I only snore when I'm about to wake, and when I do it's more of a long snort than a snore?"

Mary's train wasn't quite on the same track, and she politely shook her head. "No, no I didn't. That's quite... interesting. John, did you know that?"

"Yes," Watson replied dryly, "I've known for some time now."

"And did you know that Watson snores when he's been drinking?"

"Oh, no. No, I didn't." Mary's brow furrowed.

"Holmes, that's quite enough."

"You're right. It is indeed in my past, isn't it, old boy?"

Watson turned towards his bride. "Mary, my dear, why don't we find out where the band is and what we'd like to dance to first?"

"Oh, that would be lovely. If you'll excuse us, Sherlock."

"Indeed. Leave and enjoy yourself." Holmes raised his empty glass in a faux salute.

John and Mary went off to find the french horn player in the brass quintet that her father had hired as the french hornist was the band leader. Holmes sighed and let his head roll back. Absinthe is best when properly louched and enjoyed over the course of an enjoyable lunch or pipe. Unfortunately, Holmes hadn't the inclination nor the appetite to even prepare a smoke. Instead, he let his head rest back as he closed his eyes and tried to smile. Tried. He thought of the finest absinthe he'd ever tasted, the finest pipe he'd ever smoked, the finest meal he'd ever ate... and the only person he'd ever truly loved. The bride and groom danced three songs together as the only couple on the floor. Watson was a bit stiff, as Holmes had predicted, but Mary's good nature and patience seemed to have no end. A waiter came around to ask if Holmes would like an after-dinner aperitif. Holmes informed him that aperitifs were before-dinner drinks, but accepted the drink anyhow. "In fact," Holmes started, grabbing Watson's glass, "you'd better give me two." The waiter's eyebrows rose slightly, but upon being warned by the previous server, complied with Holmes' request with an obliging smile. "Merci, mon frère. Merci."

Holmes enjoyed the drinks, and despite watching the only person he cared about out on the dance floor with the woman the doctour must have surely tried several times to convince himself he loved. "Pourquoi, John? Pourquoi?" ("Why, John? Why?") he asked himself. A new song began and Holmes came to the realisation that perhaps he had managed quite a bit to drink since shooting up in the bathroom before dinner. Perhaps nothing he would do would have any consequence. Perhaps he should get up and dance.

Straightening his cravat, Holmes carefully extracted himself from his chair and scanned the dance floor. Many men were stepping in to dance with a new partner. If they could, why couldn't he? Sherlock moved effortlessly amongst the moving, changing pairs dancing until he got to Watson and Mary. He cleared his throat slightly as he folded one hand behind his back, and smiling, asked "May I cut in?"

John and Mary looked at one another with a smile – both happy that Holmes seemed to be making an effort to enjoy himself with the rest of their guests. "John?"

"I don't mind at all. I can spare a few moments from you, I suppose." He looked at his new wife.

"Lovely," Holmes said, stepping between the two. He smiled widely as he heard Mary gasp behind him, obviously expecting that he would dance with her. Holmes lead Watson in a wide, sweeping circle away from where they were all just standing, leaving Mary perplexed. "I bet you didn't expect that, did you, mother hen?" he asked, whispering into Watson's ear.

The other man laughed heartily. "Indeed. Are you having a good time, Holmes?"

"I am now." Holmes let his nose bump into Watson's ear, before leaning forward and pressing his lips against the other man's neck.

Watson jerked back slightly. "Not here, Holmes. You'll get us both killed. Just... dance with me, Holmes. Just dance with me."

Holmes slowed down their pace, in part to make things easier on Watson's bad leg, and in part to hold him closer. Mary stood on the side of the dance floor, watching the two smartly dressed men holding hands and moving in time with one another. Her father came along side her and demanded to know why she wasn't dancing with her own husband. "Mr. Holmes just... decided to joke, I think."

The doctour felt horribly conflicted. He loved Mary. He loved Mary, and yet... this felt divine. Holmes had a way about him, a fluidity that could not be rivaled by the most cultured man in all of Europe. Holmes was making him feel – like a dead man. The Colonel was glaring at them. Surely, he knew what had actually happened in the shed! "Christ," Watson muttered under his breath.

"What?"

Watson took the lead and spun Holmes around to catch the glares not only from the Morstans, but from several other guests as well. "No worries," Holmes whispered into the groom's ear as he held out Watson's hand and melodramatically walked them over to Mary. "My dear girl, I don't know how you managed three songs with him. I'd be much better off dancing with your likeness, don't you agree, Colonel?" Morstan was red in the face, but Holmes let go of Watson and grabbed Mary's hand, twirling her into him such that her back rested against his chest as he lead them out onto the dance floor.

"That's a rather particular friend you've got, son." Morstan addressed Watson as he kept his eyes on his daughter.

"Yes, yes. Holmes has always been quite the eccentric, ever since we first met." He let a fingertip trace the outline of his mustache, reliving the incident in the shed as if to convince himself that it had actually occurred.

"Can he be trusted out there with her?"

"I trust no one more than I trust Sherlock. He is, in his own way, the finest man I've ever met."

"Surely, you don't trust him more than your own wife!"

"While I do trust my dear Mary, Holmes has been my closest companion for... for well over a decade. That sort of bond, the one of brothers, not of blood, but of," love, he'd wanted to say. Instead, he stopped short. "...trusted companions, is the type of bond that is not easily broken. Surely, you, as a fellow military man can agree."

Colonel Morstan snorted. "Does make sense, I suppose. Two bachelors, I'm sure you were often going out for a bit of drink and perhaps helping one another out if there was any scraps with the other locals, eh? I mean, even in my day... well, I don't talk about that much because the Misses doesn't need to know all my shortcomings, but suffice to say I can remember plenty of times when if not for my brothers in arms I'd have been in shackles!"

"Indeed!" Watson agreed boisterously. "Indeed."

Holmes ensured that by the end of the dance they were located near Colonel Morstan and Watson. "And here is your newly wedded daughter. I apologize for any selfishness I may have displayed in the last few moments, though I was sure that Watson here would not be so keen to surrender his bride had I not employed a type of surprise assault on his senses first." Watson smiled, pleased at how artfully Holmes was covering his true intentions up.

The Colonel said nothing. "After all, what better way to disorient a man than to spin him around a few times before leaving him alone?" Mary was smiling and even her father seemed less inclined to punch Holmes in the face; however, Watson knew that his words were laden with double entendres. I suppose it's true, he thought, perhaps I have been sending Holmes mixed signals... today.

Holmes broke the doctor's chain of thoughts. "Unfortunately, on this note, I shall probably fair best if I take my leave now as I've got a pile of work on my desk of which to attend. If you would give me a moment alone with the happy couple, Colonel." After Morstan complied, Holmes reached into a pocket. "Mary, as my wedding gift to you there is a sum of three hundred pounds in this envelope."

Mary's eyes widened. "Surely, you have been far too generous with us already, Mr. Holmes. After all, if not for you, I would have never had such a lovely diamond! Your presence here and that lovely speech were all the gifts necessary!"

"Mary, I insist. I give it to you and ask that you hang onto it for when John can't quite seem to remember where he put the rent money. You'll be thanking me within a year's time, I can assure you." He leaned forward to hug her. "Take care of yourself and enjoy." Despite Holmes' barb at her new husband, Mary still embraced him affectionately and took the thick white envelope to put in her carpet bag later in the evening before they left for the night.

"And to you," Holmes sighed as he embraced John, sliding a small black envelope into Watson's jacket pocket. "When you change your mind, you've got a few of my newest capsules," he whispered. Holmes held Watson tighter as he inhaled. "Stay out of trouble. I shall miss you." Watson clapped his friend on the back, trying to fight back the lump in his throat. Perhaps Sherlock had been sincere, perhaps he'd been sincere this whole time, only he was too dumb (nay, ascared of the repercussions) to see it. Whatever the possibilities once were, they were gone now, Watson reminded himself, noticing the gold band on his finger.

And that is how Sherlock Holmes left the wedding of the one he loved after suffering through it all.

Holmes hadn't quite yet hailed a hansom before his flask was back out. He took long pulls of absinthe straight from his flask as he directed the driver to take him to his apartment on Baker Street. By the time he finally arrived, Holmes was barely able to stumble out of the carriage and up the stairs to 221 B. He managed to get his key into the door on his first try, and after stepping into his room (only his, no longer shared with Watson), Holmes threw off his frock and waistcoat before collapsing onto the sofa. He drank whatever he could find within arm's reach, falling asleep with his arm around Gladstone, who always seemed to know when he needed a bit of companionship.

Watson, being both physically and emotionally exhausted from the day, had convinced Mary that they should leave on their honeymoon the following morning. In doing so, he also convinced her that they should wait to consummate their marriage, assuring her that they would have "all the time in the world" to give physical manifestation to their love. Mary eventually concurred, figuring that John's leg was still bothering him, and convinced that her negligee would be just as beguiling the next night.


	9. The Monday After

Holmes didn't awake until Mrs. Hudson came in at 11 with some cold meat, eggs, and coffee. She had almost turned to leave when Holmes snorted and shook his head. He sat up to look at her. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes. I hope you don't mind that I brought your breakfast in late, but I figured that you had come in late last night."

"Please leave."

"Excuse me?"

"Leave! Get the bloody hell out of my room! I don't want to see you, I don't want to see anyone other than this foul dog! Leave!"

Mrs. Hudson left the room in a near run. "And here it goes," she said under her breath. She'd heard Holmes come in the previous night – how couldn't she with the way he slammed the door? She was trying to point out his obvious drunkenness by being vague, and instead she got a belligerent tenant in return. She only hoped that he wouldn't use his anger to torture the dog or shoot more holes into her walls.

Watson, meanwhile, spent the morning strolling local gardens with his new bride before taking lunch and afternoon tea. The newly wedded couple sat on plush grass alone as Mary talked to John about her plans and ideas for their new home. "I was thinking, perhaps, that I should pick out a new wallpaper for the kitchen, if that would be agreeable to you?"

"Yes," Watson replied, holding hands with Mary as he looked off into the distant trees.

"And do you think we should have a housekeeper? Even if just for every other day during the week, when you're seeing patients?"

"If you wish."

"Oh, do we have a bedroom set yet, dearest?"

"Whatever you'd like."

"That doesn't really make sense, John."

"Alright then."

"John dear?"

"Okay then."

"John... John!" Mary took her free hand and shook her husband's shoulder to get his attention.

"What?" he snapped. He immediately regretted his tone upon seeing the pain on Mary's face. "I'm sorry, my love. I was just... thinking." Of course, he didn't tell her about what, or who, lest she think him queer.

"And just what were you thinking about?" Mary asked flirtatiously.

"...Patients." He wasn't lying, Sherlock was his patient. In fact, the detective had intimated that he wouldn't see anyone else for his maladies.

"Patients? John dear, we're on our honeymoon!" Mary chastised him lightly, touching his hand. She had easily forgiven his brusque manner of moments earlier.

"I can't help it. I'm a doctour, and I always will be." I'm also a soldier, and a fighter, and a gambler...

"Poor John. This trip will be good for you. Getting away always helps clear one's mind."

"Mmm, perhaps." Watson wasn't so sure. He reached into his coat pocket to extract a small notebook and a pencil. Turning so that he faced the forest abroad, he opened the black leather book and put the pencil to his lips. He tried to write, but found himself scratching out single words and attempting to start anew. The journal was mostly a collection of his times with Holmes, along with random maladies he had encountered and wished to study further. Mary knew that he often wrote for several hours a day; however, the one time she asked to read one of his journals Watson staunchly refused. After that she knew never to ask again. A man had a right to privacy, after all, and Mary was sure that there were various telling descriptions of his patients such that those patients' identities might be compromised should she pick up one of the leather-bound books.

Watson turned slightly towards the aged trees bordering the landscape, such that he was no longer facing his wife. His chest felt tight, and his pencil hovered above a fresh page, the previous one having been filled with words, fragments of sentences that has been hastily scratched out lest Mary set eye on them. Watson let his fingers wander into the pockets belonging to either side of his coat. In one side were the rich leather gloves Holmes had given him as a gift. On the other side were another pair of leather gloves, also nice, but lacking the same buttery, supple quality of the other set. Mary had given him these as a wedding gift, and he had noted that Holmes was put out upon seeing that he had chosen to wear them over his other pair. It was like I was choosing her over him, Watson thought. Of course, it was a little too coincidental not to be obvious – by taking his bride, Watson had chosen her over the stagnant, perpetual bachelorhood he had embraced for so many years with Holmes. That's not to say that life with Holmes was ever boring. On the contrary, sometimes life with Holmes was a bit too exciting, and dare he say, stressful, even. Then again, some of the most content moments Watson had experienced in the past dozen or so years he cohabitated with Holmes was when the other man was smoking his pipe or softly playing his violin whilst Watson was enjoying the fire with a snifter of brandy. God, how he would miss those times. He reached back into his left jacket pocket and started to pull out the gloves Holmes had given him when he noticed Mary watching him. Irrational thoughts of her knowing what was on his mind occurred to him, and Watson shoved them back into the darkness of his pocket, closed his journal, and hastily stowed it away.

Watson managed (with some difficulty) to control himself during the rest of their lackadaisical day sitting and thinking and talking. Dinner was as uneventful as could be, despite John's lack of appetite. Mary had worried that perhaps he had been exposed to too much fresh air, but then again, she was not a doctour. After they finished their meal, John settled down by the fire with a book while Mary worked on a piece of stitchery that she'd brought with her. She figured she would give him a few hours to digest his meal and relax before she slipped into an outfit that was proverbially "more comfortable". Mary hadn't paid much attention to the amount of brandy that seemed to be replenishing itself in Watson's glass, although she probably should have noticed. Around nine-thirty she stood up to excuse herself, smiling to John as she left the room. Twenty minutes later she padded back into the room, sneaking up to John's chair, ready to put her hands over his eyes when she saw that he'd dropped his glass on the floor. She swooped to assess the inevitable stain only to find that the glass had been bone-dry.

Endeavoring to be the good, understanding wife, Mary slipped her slight frame under John's shoulder and attempted to coax his sleeping form into bed. Unfortunately, he was sleeping the sleep of the dead- nothing short of an earthquake could have awoken him, and earthquakes didn't often occur in England. After her unsuccessful attempt, Mary found a throw to drape over her new husband's sleeping form. In the morning. she would lightly chastise John for imbibing a bit too much, and he would grin crookedly and advert his eyes from her, knowing that he used one of the capsules Sherlock had given him to "prevent an uncomfortable situation". Of course, John felt slightly ashamed, but only slightly, that he had deceived his wife in such a backhanded manner. But, after all, he would be the head of their household, and he should be allowed to refute Mary's advances if he were otherwise inclined.


	10. The Tuesday After

That afternoon they had afternoon tea inside as Mary had a slight headache and was afraid that the direct sunlight would be too sensitive on her eyes. Watson welcomed the opportunity to sit quietly and sat near the unlit fireplace. He looked off into the distance, through the sitting room' westerly window. A slight smile formed on his lips as he blinked dreamily, remembering that fall day when he was able to persuade Sherlock to walk with him amongst the crisp fall air and the changing fall leaves. Of course, Holmes had chastised Watson for keeping him away from potential clients for over two hours-- after all, he had no need for idle exercise. That was one point in which Watson could certainly concur. He'd seen Holmes neutralize men twice his size in the boxing ring, as well as see him bend metal with his bare hands. In his own way, Holmes was a true Adonis. He wondered if Holmes would go to the ring tonight, wishing he were closer in proximity so that he could slip away to watch his favourite fighter. Even when he feared that Holmes would end up on the ground in a bloody heap, he always bet on him. Always. It was a silent agreement between the two men, and Watson's way of standing behind Holmes. Of course, he would also stand in front of Sherlock smiling, a gleam in his eye, as he watched the other man unbutton his shirt and slip it off his well-toned shoulders. He would always wish Holmes luck, and would often be told that luck did not enter into the equation. Indeed! Watson would heartily concur as he watched his companion move deftly around the tight, makeshift ring, his muscles glistening in sweat. He closed his eyes and a contented groan escaped from his throat. 

"John?" His eyes snapped open as he followed the sound of the voice in the room. It was Mary - who else would it be? Watson cleared his throat forcefully, shaking his head. 

"Sorry, I must have swallowed the wrong way." He was about to excuse himself to get some water, but found himself in an uncomfortable position, especially after his rejection of Mary's previous advances.

Mary eyed him. "Would you like some water, dear?"

"Yes," Watson smiled. "Thank you."

_~~~~~~~~~~~_

Mary had excused herself to lay down as her headache hadn't subsided and John told her that he didn't have his ordinary bag with him, thus he was unable to provide her with any medicinal relief. He welcomed the chance to be alone with his thoughts. He felt pangs of melancholy, hope,... desire. But as soon as Watson felt such, he worked to put such thoughts out of his mind. What would his army sergeant have said? What would poor Mary say? What would Holmes say?

He knew. He knew what Holmes would say. Depending on his mood he might taunt Watson, although John couldn't deny the other man's actions during the past week. Hell, if Watson were to be honest with himself, he'd have wondered about Holmes' intentions for years. While it wasn't singularly odd for two bachelors approaching middle age to reside together, he knew that others whispered behind his back that he was the only man that could possibly put up with Holmes, and that Holmes would put up with-- but why? Holmes found him amusing, and possessing traits such as silence, strength and intelligence, strengths that he had, up until an acquaintance introduced the two men, thought were virtually impossible to find in one singular individual. Giving into a momentary weakness, Watson allowed himself to caress his upper lip, his tongue darting out softly, tentatively. He remembered the feel of Holmes' lips against his, and of his arms around his torso... Holmes had asked him if he'd felt the charge between them, the electricity. Upon throwing himself at the other man, Holmes had offered, no- pleaded with John to stay at the apartment. It had taken too many close encounters to recall, but Watson, upon reviewing the events of the last week, was forced to admit to himself that at his core he returned Sherlock's love. He knew what a risk it was for Holmes to say those three most important words in the English language, and what dire straits the other man must have felt himself between to admit such to him. Unfortunately for Watson who realised his heart's desire a mere two days too late, he was stuck in what would shortly become a loveless marriage, once Mary came to the realisation that he didn't really care for her. In fact, he never did, really. She was an easy way for him to fit into society's trappings-- men were to get married, raise a family, and not wallow in bachelorhood until their golden years. She was going to be his key to looking the part of the modern, accepted man; however, Watson knew that it was not fair to her, to either of them, ( _or to Holmes_ ) to let his young wife sink into a lifelong depression in her fruitless attempts to try to please him and act the part of his good wife.

That night Mary rose from bed only to eat, kissing John wanly on the cheek before excusing herself and returning to bed once more. Feeling guilty, he thanked fate that she had been suffering from a headache that would not leave her. He was not sure that he could have fended off her amorous advances another night in a row had she not been suffering. Watson welcomed the quiet sitting room, taking refuge near the fire as he tried to think through how he would handle his predicament. Of course, the most noble option would be to forget Holmes, and make a conscious effort to strive to be the best husband he could be to Mary. Perhaps if she got pregnant, his feelings towards her might grow. Watson began to contemplate leading a double life, one in which he was with Mary, but saw Sherlock when time permitted, but he admitted to himself that that too would be unfair to all involved. The effort alone might kill him, and Holmes had already made it clear how jealous he got of others who took John's attention away from him. He poured himself a large snifter of brandy. There was a third option, although the end results were not clear, and might end up with Watson leaving behind a disgruntled wife only to be rejected by Holmes. His heart sank a bit, thinking of such, but Holmes would be the first to admit that a good reasoner would work through all potentials before deciding on a course of action.


	11. The Wednesday After

The next day Mary awoke feeling rejuvenated, and insisted on dragging John out with her into the green field. She grabbed him by the hand and yanked him up from his chair, his paper falling askew to the floor. "It will be fun, John dear! I hardly got to see you yesterday, I missed you!" Watson had wanted to ask her what she proposed to do on the days he was stuck within the confines of his office meeting with clients, but he kept his mouth shut. He hadn't let himself consider what she would do (or think) on the days he was ran off to help Holmes in a remote county, assisting him in what would seem to be an unsolvable case for anyone else. He allowed Mary to lead the way through fields and down dirt paths, worn soft by the countless young lovers and ardent hunters that came before them. He chatted with her about banal issues – again with furnishings, curtains, what sort of bread he preferred during the week. Watson was beginning to feel impatient. He wanted to raise his voice and demand that she stop. He just didn't care! He didn't care about curtains, or bread, or whether they should get a small dog! He already had a dog! Gladstone was a perfectly good dog when Holmes wasn't drugging him! A thought occurred to Watson - perhaps he if took one of the horses for the carriages and started off now he could get to Baker Street in four hours? Of course, if he mentioned to Mary his idea about taking a day ride she would insist upon going along. He wondered if Holmes was thinking of him, or whether he had shrugged off the past week as if it never happened.

Mrs. Hudson had been afraid to go upstairs to check on her lodger. Normally, when Holmes was being wretched, she could count on the doctour to smooth the waters so that she could deliver some tea or mutton pie. Lately though... ever since Watson proposed to his wife and gave her a ring, Holmes had become more of a menace. This last month was absolutely trying, although it merely seemed almost paltry in comparison to the detective's full-scale tantrum since his roommate had left.

"Mister Holmes, I've come to deliver provisions!" she cried from outside the door.

"I'm not hungry!" he shouted back.

"But I can't recall you taking food since early Monday." She had delivered some tea and scones, although she wasn't sure what Holmes had actually eaten as she heard a loud crash and various items being pummeled against the wall. She'd assumed that those were the scones, and had hoped that he hadn't ruined her tea set.

"I've ingested plenty!" bellowed the voice from the other side of the door.

"Mister Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson didn't have a grasp on the amount of chemicals that Holmes put into his body aside from his pipes and the drinking, but she often wondered how much longer Holmes would last before pickling his liver. The landlady sighed, knowing that even if she was allowed entry into the man's living quarters, she would likely be aghast at what she saw. She didn't have the energy to be yelled at today, so instead she left the tray outside the door. "It's here then when you want it," she cried out before turning and heading down the stairs.

Holmes would eventually retrieve the tray of a then-cold open-faced turkey sandwich with gravy and potatoes, and coffee. He picked at the sandwich a bit, but he could muster no appetite. He needed a release. He found a clean syringe and withdrew a few cubic centimetres of his seven percent solution, injecting it into his veins with expert skill. His head fell back in his chair and he closed his eyes as the world began to swirl around him. His hands instinctively searched the floor near his armchair until they found his violin and bow. His fingers started to play the song he'd written about John and Gladstone. Screaming, he threw the instrument away. Why wasn't he back by now? Sherlock had been almost certain that John would have arrived, suitcase in hand, explaining how things just weren't working out and how he needed to come back. He would have admitted that marrying the trout-faced harpy was a mistake, and he would insist upon staying there on Baker Street with Holmes until one of them died, or Mrs. Hudson kicked them out. Instead, Holmes was alone.

The last thing his conscious mind would remember was the dog's loud snore before he passed out on the floor, splayed spread eagle on the worn rug.

John and Mary shared a locally-caught fish for dinner that was prepared by the house's live-in cook. The help seemed accustomed to an ever-changing cast of characters temporarily inhabiting the cottage. Regardless, the cook's talent was undeniable. They were presented with a glazed pear tart for dessert. Mary, who adored pears, was enchanted with the meal's ending. John wasn't used to having so many sweets within a week's time, and would have preferred a nice steak and kidney pie, or roast with potatoes and carrots. He didn't need an overly-sweet dessert to satisfy him- a nice sherry would have done just fine.

After dinner the couple retired to the sitting room to enjoy a sizable fire for a few hours before Mary suggested they retreat into the bedroom for the night. Knowing that he couldn't reasonably deny her request and its implications for yet another night, Watson complied. After setting aside his paper, he followed Mary into the bedroom. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable on the bed, darling, while I go and freshen up a bit?" Mary suggested.

Watson sat on the bed to remove his shoes as his new bride excused herself to enter the bath. It only took a mere five minutes before Mary reappeared from the adjoining room. Her slight body was enveloped in a dainty pink gauze. "Is – that a negligee?" Watson asked.

"Oh John! Don't tell me you've never seen one. A man of your experience!" Mary purred as she sauntered over to the bed. John felt compelled to look away. He wasn't sure that he could do this... He felt ashamed, embarrassed, caught in the beginning of an act which he could barely acknowledge. Watson realised with a sudden dawning that Mary, his new bride, was an attractive choice, a choice to appear normal – she was his Adler! The thought chilled him, and he had an instant urge to vomit. He jogged to the toilet in the adjoining room and stood over it in case his gut reaction decided to show itself. Mary screamed, she had been prepared for her second deflowering, this time to a man who wouldn't die, and here her new groom was vomiting! All over the floor! "John!" she screamed, before running away. She had run to find a servant and ask him to clean up the mess, but realised that she would need to find something to wrap around her flimsy outfit. John couldn't help himself, although he felt guilty for depriving Mary. She really only wished for what every new bride wanted – a memorable night of wedding consummation with her new husband. For that, John could not fault her, although that still did not lessen his disgust at what most certainly would have taken place had he not had to expel the night's fish from his system.

Watson wiped his mouth on the back of his hand as he headed out to find his wife being guided back into their room by a member of the staff. "The Misses says you was sick, sir."

"Uh, yes, yes. I was. It was just a bit of nausea, but I think I might be okay now." He was careful to put his condition in maybes, because if he, a doctour, gave random self-diagnoses, he risked being caught in a lie should they encounter anyone else with medical training. Holmes was not a doctour, but even he would know that a diagnosis of influenza would be suspicious given Watson's otherwise liveliness before accepting Mary's suggestion to retire to their rented bedroom.

Feeling slightly guilty for the idea that came so quickly to him, Watson asked the servant to fetch his bag. With his back turned to the bathroom, which was being cleaned by the hired help while Mary was heading to the kitchen for some peppermint tea to calm her new husband's stomach woes, Watson opened his black traveling bag and began rummaging inside. Upon realising that what he wanted was in his jacket pocket, he grabbed the envelope that Holmes had given him, and grabbed two of the capsules designed to lull their target to sleep. Mary was coming back with a tray of tea, when Watson turned around to greet her. "I'm so sorry."

"It only matters that you feel better, John. Here, drink this." She handed him one cup of tea while pouring a second for herself.

"Thank you." He drew the cup to his lips, feeling its steam envelope his mustache. He steeled himself for what he must say next. "Mary? Mary, dear? I've been thinking, and," he paused to think, "I think that I'd ought to give you a booster to help your immune system should you be privy to what bothered me just now. Here, my love, take these pills. They should help."

"You're so thoughtful, John. Thank you." Mary did as she was told, unaware that she just took enough barbiturate to fell two men the size of her husband. Meanwhile, Watson suggested that she get into bed while he wash up from the previous excitement, helping her into bed lest the drugs take effect before she had a chance to drop her head near her pillow. He tucked the coverlet around her as if she were a sleeping child, hoping that in his haste he hadn't over-drugged her.

Watson waited to begin his final preparations until after Mary had been quietly sleeping for a half hour's time. He then ripped a page out of his most recent journal and began writing. He had worried that the letter would be difficult to write, however, words came to him so quickly that he was barely able to maintain a legible hand. He first explained his absence. Next, he apologized. He omitted telling his wife the real truth behind his abrupt departure, merely stating that he didn't think he could be the man she deserved and that he needed to listen to his heart. He was leaving her the packet of money that Holmes had provided as a wedding gift. Watson was unaware, but it had contained notes amounting to over 400 pounds – more than enough to allow her to live comfortably for well over a year. That, combined with the gifts from her family's acquaintances (none of which John kept), most of them at least as wealthy as Colonel himself, would provide for Mary for quite some time- long enough for her to get over her broken heart and find a new, better husband. Meanwhile, he needed to wake one of the servants and start his bags off toward Baker Street.

His trunks arrived a day before he did. Holmes didn't think too much of it, he'd figured that perhaps Watson's new abode wasn't quite as spacious as anticipated. He had given up the idea of the other man coming back three days ago. He'd spent hours in bed, such that he hadn't bothered to change out of his wedding attire. Mrs. Hudson commented how he might have a spot of a cold, although she actually suspected that Holmes, despite all his protestations, preferred not to live alone after such a long time with a flatmate.

After slipping the drowsy servant a few pounds, Watson had convinced him to call into the neighbouring town and arrange for a hansom to take away his trunks. He then scrounged around until he could find coffee grounds and boiled some water, figuring that he could make use of one of the house's mugs until he could find a way to get back to London. (Granted, he had no way to strain the water through the grounds, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Besides, drinking the grounds would probably help keep him awake, as he was preparing for one of the longest nights of his life.) One would admit that perhaps he hadn't thought out his escape plan very well after the drugging of his wife, but he had felt on the verve of a panic attack. In fact, one would argue that Dr. John Watson had never been so unnerved on any battlefield, with shrapnel and screaming flying all around him.

Anyone who knew Watson at all knew that his leg liked to bother him at the most inopportune times. Yet, somehow, the middle-aged doctour walked for four hours with only his cane, his travel medical bag, and the misappropriated mug. After finishing the vile coffee, Watson had considered just abandoning the mug, but thought better of it when he realised that someone with Holmes' skills would easily be on his trail. (Of course, Holmes would also be able to track him due to the use of his cane on dirt country roads, but in his sleep-deprived state Watson hadn't the foresight to consider it.)

Feeling as though he was going to have to walk down the same road for the rest of his life, Watson finally saw a farmer who was beginning his day by taking a trip out to his barn. He shouted out to get the older man's attention, and tried to trot towards the farmer's field, stumbling on his way to the wooden fence separating the farmer's land from the road. "Hello, hello there! Good morning!"

"Hello there yourself. It's awfully early for a walk now, isn't it?" The old man, upon walking towards the fence to meet Watson, was drawn to the doctor's pronounced limp. "Are you okay there, son?"

"I, no." Watson caught his breath. "I've been walking for hours, there's no cabs around this part. I'm used to the hustle and bustle of London. Even at three in the morning you can find the errant carriage willing to take you home."

"I see." The man looked guardedly towards Watson, unsure of how to gauge a city man he'd never met.

"Actually, I was hoping that perhaps you could help me out. You see, I've been out to see a patient and need to get back to my practice. I'm a doctour. If there was some way that I could pay you for the use of a horse perhaps, if you had one which you could spare for a day or two? I would send it back to you after I got back to my office." Despite his mind's heaviness, the lie came easily and he held up his bag to prove the truth of his profession to the farmer.

"Well, I suppose."

"And how much could I pay you for such a service? I've got 15 pounds on me, and I would gladly send you a check for 15 more back with whoever returns your beast to you."

The farmer, unaccustomed to getting paid so handsomely, smirked in surprise. "Well, I suppose. I suppose that would be fair enough, providing you're a man of your word, that is."

Watson ignored the fact that he was running out on the woman to whom he'd only just pledged his life and love. "I'm Doctour John Watson, of 221-B Baker Street, London. I'll gladly shake your hand and provide you with all the money I've got on me to show my character."

"Well, alright then." The farmer shook his hand, admiring the gloves hanging out of Watson's coat. "Although, say, it wouldn't be fair of me to take all that you've got on you. If we made it 10 pounds and then maybe those nice gloves, my hands sure do get cold in the mornings." The man's eyes gleamed when he saw the fair leather. The gloves were surely worth more than five pounds, however, he was not the one pleading for the bargain.

Watson looked down. They were the gloves Mary had given him as a wedding gift, the gloves that enraged Holmes who viewed them as a replacement. In fact, he surely felt replaced altogether by Watson's departure. "Sure we can! Although, if you had something warm that I could refill my mug with and stop for a half hour before resuming my trip, I would be greatly obliged."

The farmer, feeling as though he'd just taken the kiddy in a particularly heated hand of poker, smiled wildly. "I'll do better than that, even! If you've been walking since your appointment, you could use a few hours of sleep. There's bales o' hay out in the barn, and I could get a blanket from inside the house, if you like. Of course, what with my wife and our youngest daughter still in the house, I can't invite you in, but I can at least give you a respite of sorts."

Watson returned the smile. "That sounds superb. I've yet to meet such a fine gentleman in quite some time. Here are those gloves now."

Sherlock decided to bathe, because even in his depressed, blackened state, he could yet realise (alas, he could nearly smell himself!) that he was rank, to say the least. He did, however, re-dress in the clothes in which he last touched Watson, the clothes he'd been wearing since the doctour's nuptials. Their bodies had been pressed together in what was almost a lovers' embrace. Hell, if only the two men had been unclothed, Sherlock would have stayed in nothing but his birthday suit this entire time. Holmes chuckled to himself ruefully – perhaps it was for the best that they had been fully dressed. If the two men had been sans clothes, Sherlock would have been even less inclined to bathe! Oh, but what Mrs. Hudson must think, regardless!

Perhaps it was in part because Watson had forced them upon him, perhaps it was the thought that maybe bathing with them would provide him an extra day before his filth overcame his own senses, but Holmes had decided to run a steaming bath with the salts that Watson had left in his possession. Of course, the thought that he had been forced to bathe in an effort to make himself presentable for Ms. Mary Morstan made him grimace, but Holmes tried instead to remember the surprising forcefulness in which John had strong-armed him to surrender to a bath. In the claw-footed tub, alone with his thoughts and the vanilla scent wafting up from the dissolved salts, Holmes closed his eyes, let his head rest on the side of the tub, and began to visualize Watson alone, lying on his bed. The detective's fingertips met in a peak above the steaming water, reminiscent of the pose they took when he was deep in thought or contemplation of a yet-unsolved puzzle.

It was certainly odd that Watson insisted on sleeping in Holmes' bed when he was thoroughly intoxicated, yet Holmes didn't mind. While he gave Holmes his professional attention on many occasion, the care with which he attended to Holmes – especially when a rib was cracked or Holmes' nose was broken, was more than merely professional. At times, the army veteran's touch was more than professional, more than friendly, more than... Holmes' eyes snapped open and he shifted in the tub. Sherlock had always been interested in chemistry, and in the human body, and how the human mind worked to solve man's most complex problems, yet he had always avoided consciously exploring his own emotions and sensations. Mais oui, he relieved himself when his bladder was full, and he drank when he was thirsty, but thoughts and feelings unrelated to prolonging his life on this earth were generally considered beneath him. However, with the water entering his pores and thoughts of John on his mind, Sherlock allowed himself to succumb to what most would consider a primal instinct beyond that of mere survival and nourishment. Holmes thought of Watson's eyes, how they twinkled when Holmes slyly berated Lestrade for his outright ignorance in solving cases. He thought of Watson's mustache, which seemed to twitch whenever Watson took it upon himself to tease Sherlock. He thought of Watson's hands, which stitched him up more than once with more care than a mother would give her bruised child.

Holmes inhaled deeply, again closing his eyes. He remembered Watson's wounded shoulder, and how the shrapnel had never completely been removed. How it pained him, and how his leg often added insult to injury after a night of tracking a case, or before a hard rain. Despite having been a veteran since before he met Holmes, Watson's frame and figure had always remained lithe and muscular, despite no regimented exercise routine. His chest was well-defined, his stomach flat, his waist... muscular. Unable to envision anything lower than the sloping line of Watson's hips, (tanned from the doctour's frequent, private sunbathing), that lead Holmes' eyes to follow the line of the cotton drawers with their bone button keeping the garment upon the older man's waist, Holmes felt his mouth watering and his mind start to go foggy. His eyes closed languidly, as if of their own volition. He felt as though he were disconnected from his physical being, and unable to deny his baser urges any longer, allowed one strong hand to dip below the water...

Perhaps a physical release was what was needed, perhaps it was not seeking out the cocaine bottle for a few hours, but whatever the cause, Holmes rose from his bath feeling somewhat renewed, as if somehow he might manage in his new life after all. While he had maintained that his life was at its peak a few years back, he felt that so long as there were those treated unjustly by extenuating circumstances in London, he was able to be of use. Quite frankly, Holmes believed that Lestrade would have been sacked years ago had it not been all the unpublished help the consulting detective had given Scotland Yard for so long. After throwing some salvageable scraps of meat to Gladstone, Holmes picked up his bow and rosin and prepared to play. He would not allow his instrument to play a gay tune, but he was not of the disposition to play a dirge either – however, regardless of what song his fingers chose, he refused to allow himself to play Watson's tune. Instead, knowing that there was a particular slow waltz that the bulldog seemed to enjoy, Holmes played that.

He played for hours, until even his calloused fingers grew weary. It was well after midnight when Holmes had sated his musical inclination. He let his instrument and bow slip from his fingers onto the floor before stretching. "Perhaps I should go to bed, eh Gladstone?" Yawning, Holmes stretched his arms and arched his back. Sleep was definitely setting into his bones. As for his mind, Holmes was hopeful that his thoughts would slow down after he had rubbed some liniment into his weary muscles, blew out his taper, and closed his eyes. Concerned that he would be unsuccessful at finding sleep, Holmes took a pinch of tobacco out of his slipper and lit his pipe, sucking on it until large, doleful puffs of smoke spiraled into the air above his head. After finishing his shag, he tapped out the ashes into the closest ashtray he could lay his hands on, and rose from his chair. "Come Gladstone, let us fall into the arms of Morpheus." The dog snorted, and then got up and scratched at his rear quarters. "Perhaps we could both use a bit of the milk conditioning cream I have instead of that veterinary liniment, eh? Come, and we shall find something for that dry patch of skin you have." Holmes began to shuffle over to his bedroom when he slowed near the door to his suit of rooms. His ears seemed to discern a creaking of the wooden steps leading to his rooms. At this time of night, however, even Mrs. Hudson had long since retired. The detective cocked his head in an effort to better concentrate on whatever sound he had just perceived. Perhaps it was a fellow Londoner in need? No. Too quiet. Perhaps it was one of the lower echelon in Moriarty's crime network who had managed to escape capture coming to end his life? No. Holmes had personally overseen that particular project. Looking at Gladstone to gauge whether the dog was concerned about who was approaching their abode, Holmes quickly strode to the door. It all happened so quickly, yet his subconscious was alert, as if someone had been gently gliding the end of a pin across his flesh. On the other side of the door stood Doctor John Watson. He had taken off his remaining pair of gloves – the pair that Sherlock had given him, and he had taken a deep, nervous breath before lifting his left hand in preparation to knock on the door. His fist had started to move toward the door to rap on it when Holmes swung it open, taking Watson by surprise.

The doctor looked at Holmes with wide eyes, while Holmes regarded the man on the other side of the door frame with a steadiness familiar with one who is used to unexpected guests. "Sherlock," Watson blurted, "Sherlock, listen please. Just listen. You were right. You were right and I shouldn't have –"

Watson was unable to finish his hurried apology and explanation as he found himself being pulled by the lapel into the door frame, his lips shoved against Sherlock's as if they were never meant to part. He had made his way back to 221 Baker Street, back to his home, their home, not sure what would happen, not sure what he would say, not sure of anything other than his desire and his need to get back home. Finding himself pulled against Sherlock, Watson surprised himself yet again when he naturally responded to the other man's lips against his. It just felt right. He let his doctor's bag drop on the floor right outside the door. Holmes made a small noise, (Watson was unsure if it was a grunt or a moan, or that it even mattered what it was all), and then he eased up slightly to look into Watson's face and observe his reaction. Wary of what the other man's reaction would be, Holmes was surprised when Watson leaned in towards him voluntarily. Unable to contain his urges, Holmes attacked the other man, pushing him against the door frame in a frenzied embrace. Watson, in a moment of clarity, reached around the shorter man and ripped the plain gold band off his left ring finger, tossing it errantly into a bowl which sat on an old accent table near the door. The men sometimes put their keys in it, and Holmes had a tendency to store orphan buttons there in hopes that Mrs. Hudson would fix his waistcoats.

Watson ran his hands through the other man's hair, separating his lips from Holmes' long enough to whisper into the detective's ear. "Holmes." The detective answered by letting his hands strip the doctour first of his overcoat and next of his suit jacket, before ripping the buttons off the other man's vest. ("More buttons for Nanny," Holmes thought, smirking.) Holmes started to walk backwards, pulling Watson with him. Watson used his bad leg to clumsily kick the door closed behind them. The door fell almost an inch short of the frame, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing mattered to either of them. Surprising himself, Holmes couldn't contain his hands from shaking excitedly as he undid Watson's shirt to reveal the tanned chest underneath. His mouth instinctively went to the taller man's collar bone. It tasted musky, but sweet. Holmes closed his eyes as he flared his nostrils to drink in the scent of the other man so close to him- it was intoxicating. It was dizzying.

Watson, unsure of how Holmes would react to his homecoming, had been cautious in the beginning, but upon feeling the strength and urgency in which Holmes' lips met his, he felt a renewed vigor towards the raven-haired man. He ran his hand through Holmes' freshly cleaned hair as he started towards the nearest bedroom. He had spent many a night in Holmes' room before, but never one such as he was anticipating now. Holmes was pulling him closer, deeper into his private room, as if Watson weighed nothing at all. As Sherlock pulled him into his bedroom, Watson had his mind about him enough to let his foot kick at the door behind them in an effort to keep the bulldog out of the room. (Two's company, three is a crowd!) The door had started to fit into the jam, but it did not close completely. Regardless, while the dog was happy to see his original (and more kindly) owner, he reasoned that an unattended slipper lay near the settee and that it smelled just right for a bit of a chew, and that was much more enticing than any of the weird noises that his owners were making in the other room.

Holmes' room was a windowless one, although a lit candle seemed to provide plenty of warm glow for the men to see what their fingers were doing. Despite engaging in an entirely new activity between the two of them, the men knew one another's bodies well. (In fact, while he would never admit to it, Holmes was sometimes a bit envious of the advanced medical training Watson had – while Holmes could be considered rather book-smart in medical affairs, he hadn't a fraction of the practical training and experience that Watson's resume boasted.) "Holmes, I – I've never done this before," Watson whispered hurriedly. He needn't say it, but he was worried about the practicality of what was about to happen – after all, there was a reason that sodomy was considered unnatural, and part of it was due to the physical difficulties it could present.

Holmes, having laid on the bed, smiled, thinking of the milk-based cream he had intended to use on Gladstone earlier in the night. "I have just the thing," he purred, leaning onto his side table to grab a liberal handful of the lotion. "Ici," ("Here,") Holmes purred, rubbing the cream into Watson's hand to transfer it to him. In his last moments laying on his back, Holmes reached up and massaged the residue of the cream into the doctor's chest, slowly working it into the other man's breast while Watson started preparing himself.

The men did not speak for the rest of their night aside from a few errant gasps and Holmes' sudden recognition of God. ("It is the only time I have ever considered that Christian deity my own," he would acknowledge in later years, when being chided by Watson.)

Mrs. Hudson arrived in the morning, surprised to see the doctor's bag sitting outside the apartment door, which was agape from the night before. Gladstone greeted her as she walked into the upstairs apartment to set down a tray of food. Holmes was next to recognize her presence. "Ah, Nanny, how lovely to see you!" He greeted her dressed in a smoking robe and squeezing through his bedroom door as if to keep the air within it undisturbed.

"Good morning, Sherlock. It's good to see you in better spirits."

"Yes, indeed. And our John is back, too!"

"Dr. Watson?" the woman asked, surprised despite seeing the doctour bag.

"The one and only," Sherlock smiled. "But let's not wake him, he didn't get in until late, and then he didn't get to sleep until even later!"

"Mr. Holmes, are you... drunk?" She paused. "I'm sorry. Forgive me for saying, but your... gait is a bit... odd." Mrs. Hudson asked cautiously. Holmes couldn't help but smile lopsidedly. Mais oui! Of course, it was!

"No, I'm not drunk, I'm not drugged, there is nothing wrong with my gait. I'm just very, very happy. There is an order to the world, Nanny, and Gladstone just hadn't been the same without him."

Mrs. Hudson turned back from setting the table to look at Holmes. "Yes, although he's not the only one." She looked at Holmes and smiled. She wondered when Mrs. Watson would be arriving, but knew that Holmes wasn't too keen on her, so she decided to hold her tongue.

"Will... he be staying in his old room? I didn't see him on the lounger."

"As he arrived last night he fell into bed without a thought otherwise," Sherlock responded, omitting into whose bed Watson had fallen.

Mrs. Hudson's eyebrows betrayed her. "Well then, I suppose I will see him shortly. I'll be back up in a bit with an extra set of dishes for him. Enjoy your breakfast, Sherlock, and if you need more of anything, I can always cook up seconds."

"Thank you, Nanny. And now, I hope you leave before I make a fool of myself, plunging my unsightly, unkempt head into this pile of your delicious potatoes."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head before heading to the door, being escorted by her tenant. "Very well then, Sherlock. And do look after Dr. Watson, what with his unexpected return."

"I intend to do just that!" Holmes remarked, opening the door for the older woman while smiling. He intended to spend days dedicated solely to Watson's every want and need... along with the occasional feeding of Gladstone, mais oui.


	12. Epilogue

In a self-interested hope, Holmes had given Mary Morstan an envelope with a sizeable amount of cash when she wed Dr. John Watson, hoping for it to have the effect of a one-time alimony payment as opposed to a wedding gift. She was also able to pawn both her wedding and engagement rings, as well as John's ring, which he sent to her in an well-padded envelope without any note attached. "I really should say something, like perhaps 'sorry'", Watson argued.

"No, you shouldn't. Apologizing admits liability. You don't have much in the way of assets and you don't want her getting half of that. After all, Gladstone had grown rather attached to me in your absence." Holmes smirked, waiting for Watson's response.

"I was only gone for a week, Holmes."

"He's sleeping in my room now."

"We all sleep in your room now." Holmes smirked in response.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~

Ten years after Watson's return to 221 Baker Street, in the midst of running down a particularly cunning murder, the doctour was shot. Luckily, Lestrade was just a few steps behind the duo, and the bullet was dislodged from Watson's side quickly, but Holmes had lost his usual cool composure. It was then that, for once, Lestrade was forced to carry Holmes through a tense, worrisome half hour until Watson was bandaged up.

"I would have thought that you'd have kept going after Jensen, knowing that we were right behind you, Holmes."

"Of course not! Without Watson, I am merely a fool running around, playing with chemicals and tracking the unsavory of our society. I am nothing. I am trivial. Not even the dog likes me best! In fact, John is the one person in this whole damned world who cares about me more than he cares about anyone else." Holmes had taken to dressing Watson's wound himself.

"I... suppose I never realised that," Lestrade replied, a bit shocked.

"Well then," Holmes said for the second time in his life, "it appears that you have a firm grasp of the obvious, at last."

Their bruises had healed shortly after they reunited. And, long after Dr. John Hamish Watson deserted his newly married wife, the only reminder of that day was a wet plate of the two men that had been moved from Sherlock's desk to rest upon their mantle.

To all of the outside world, the Army veteran doctour and the eccentric detective were merely bachelor roommates. To Mrs. Hudson, they were two friends who were inseparable to the point where maybe it had destroyed the older man's marriage. To Lestrade, they made up an indispensable duo that spent countless hours giving Scotland Yard free assistance. To Mary Morstan, they were bastards (she blamed Holmes for the quick dissolution of her marriage – after all, John had loved her so!). But, in reality, the two men were each other's life rafts – they had long had an easy daily relationship, and ordinarily with sex comes comfort, and with comfort, love. For the doctour and the detective, however, love had entered the picture long before either one of them decided to act on their sexual urges. While it took Watson longer to reciprocate Holmes' love due to the vestiges of his father's tirades, Holmes was completely, hopelessly in love with Watson for longer than he cared to admit. And while he refused to admit it to anyone else, he would make it his last declaration to tell Watson those exact words before he left this corporeal world.


End file.
